


Country of No Return

by zombie_socks



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Neglect, Drug Addiction, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inspired by Cornetto Trilogy, Minor Violence, Phonetic Dialogue, Pre-Canon, Pre-Star Trek (2009), sorry this is so dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: Bored is a swear word. And ever since childhood, Montgomery Scott knew the only thing worse than being bored is being hindered by rules. But if rules were made to be broken, then consequences were made to be lived with. He's just not sure he'd call this living.AU Scotty origin storyPlease read notes! Additional warnings in notes.
Relationships: Mira Romaine/Montgomery "Scotty" Scott, Montgomery "Scotty" Scott & Original Female Characters, Montgomery "Scotty" Scott & Original Male Characters, casual - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Um, okay, well, Hi, for starters. New fandom, so greetings and all that.
> 
> I’m gonna just get right into it. This story is canon divergent, OC, alt universe, you know the deal. But it basically came from getting into the Cornetto Trilogy (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz, the World’s End - bit late to the party, I know) and wanting to take pieces of that and develop them into Scotty’s character. So that’s where it started and then it kind of took the wheel and did it’s own thing.
> 
> I didn’t do a ton of research for this so there will no doubt be mistakes, and most of my ST knowledge comes from the reboot movies and a few of the Kelvin Timeline comics, and even then will probably have errors. 
> 
> So basically I’m just asking, give it a try, a chance. I debated about posting it, but couldn’t in good conscience leave it sitting on my harddrive.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Chapter One**

**_2229.04.11_ **

Sunlight spilled in through the old sunken panes of the kitchen window, filtered with the shaded greens of the oncoming leaves of the large oak tree in the garden. Dust particles floated on the beams like little sparks of light. Monty stood in their path and pretended they were wrapping around him. He voiced the shimmering sound of a transporter and spun in a circle over to one of the wicker chairs, "beaming" himself across the kitchen. He settled in the chair and laid his head on his folded arms atop the table. A glass of water sat near the middle, Granny's pill counter next to it. He moved the old red-tinted plastic box so that it aligned with the incoming sunlight, casting red abstractions onto the table. The glass picked up the red cast and reflected it in the water. No, he remembered, refracted. 

"Wha ya doin there, Monty?" Granny asked gently, heavily dropping herself into the chair next to him. She rubbed at her knee, frowning deeply at the medicine box. 

"Using the red box to make the sunlight red," he answered, pointing to red stripe lit up on the table. 

"I see. And do you know why it comes through red?" 

He shook his head, eyes wide and ready to learn. 

"Well the ligh’ comin' through the window has rays in various lengths and when they hit the red box, all the rays tha’ aren't red bounce back, leaving only the red ones to hit yer eye." She tapped a finger below one of his his big green eyes onto a small, freckled cheek.

Monty grinned and picked up the pill box, turning it over in his hands. "Wha if it were blue?" 

"If it were blue, only blue light would be hitting yer eye." 

He pointed to his shirt, covered in various dinosaurs. "An if something has bunches'ov colors?" 

"Then the green dinosaurs bounce back green, the red ones red, and the blue background fabric-"

"Bounces blue." 

"Tha's right. And sometimes colors sit in between like tha' blue-green sponge there by the sink. It bounces back both green and blue light." 

"So Clara's orange blankey bounces red and yellow light? "

"You go'it,  _ a chuilein _ ." 

"Wha about-"

"Monty, why aren't you dressed?" Geraldine Scott, exclaimed entering the kitchen. Clara rested on her shoulder, blanket wrapped around the sleeping baby. "You'll be late for school!" 

"Och, school," Granny rolled her eyes. "Who needs school when we're learning jus’ fine here?" She smiled at Monty who grinned back. He'd lost a tooth last week, hole in his mouth where the front baby tooth had been. 

"Geh dressed, " Geri commanded her son. He frowned up at her but scampered away. 

“Donnae be so hard on him, Geri. He’s a smart kid.” 

“An’ lazy,” she cut in, passing the baby off so she could begin preparing a bottle. “Too much of his father in him.” She took the container of formula from the shelf. “Ya know I already had a talk with his teacher. Monty answered three questions on a test, gave up, an’ began draw’ring.” 

Granny rocked the baby gently, pursing her lips a moment before asking. “Well, wha’ di’ he draw?” 

Geri shook her head, setting the bottle to warm. “I dinnea ever see it; she had him retake the test.” 

“Test, listen to tha. The boy’s seven years old. Wha’ the hell could they be testin’ ‘im on?” 

“It’s part of the curriculum, Mum.”

“Fancy word fer memorization, tha’.” She passed Clara over to her mother once the younger woman had settled in the wicker chair next to hers. 

“Well then he’d otta be very good at it. He parrots back-”

“Parrots back. Loa’ ov-”

“-wha’ you say well enough.” 

“Geri, tha’ boy understands wha’ I tell ‘im. And if you or Rory ever took a moment ta nurture tha’ creativity, he’d no doubt spend less time draw’ring spaceships in the garden. Alone.” 

“I cannea help he’s a quiet kid.” 

“But ya can help tha’ he’s picked on for it.” 

“Monty! Shoes!” Geri sighed, easing the bottle back towards the baby’s mouth, eyes glancing up to make sure the boy was putting on his trainers from where he’d left them by the door. “Can we talk abou’ this later?” 

Granny raised her hands in surrender. “Monty, c’mere a moment.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a stain glass pendant suspended on a gold chain. Dropping her voice, she began, “This ‘ere was from your grandda’.” She handed it to him, small hand closing around it with reverence. “See wha other colors ya can get the sun ta turn, hmm.” 

He smiled up at her and nodded. 

**_2258.08.10_ **

“Ya wanted to see me, sir?” 

Captain Pike raised his head from the matter he was attending to at his desk to see the cautious demeanor of one Lt. Scott of whom he had no doubt was armed with some pale explanation for his tardiness. That was the thing with Mr. Scott, he always had an excuse. 

“I did, about an hour ago.” 

“I can explain-”

“Lieutenant, whatever nano, hyper, warp core thing you’ve redone, simplified, modified, amplified, slimmed down, suped up, optimized, or retrofitted, I’m sure I’ll hear about it in Chief Engineer Miner’s personnel report, complaining about whatever engineering standard you’ve violated in the manual; just as I’m sure in a week or two from now, you’ll contest said complaint with data showing how your fix has saved power or fuel or time or resources, and I’ll be forced to tell Commander Miner that you were right and no action will be taken against you.” He paused to tuck away his PADD. “And then we’ll redo the whole thing again the next week.” 

Scott’s eyes drifted to the floor, a sheepish expression crossing his somewhat hidden features. “Sir, I,” he sighed, “I know, tha’ is…”

“Save the apology, Mr. Scott. I’m not one for excuses. Only results. And the current result is you’re here, so let’s continue.” 

Mr. Scott bristled at that, hesitantly easing into the seat across from the captain. “So wha’ di’ ya want to discuss?”

“You’re being sent back to Starfleet.” 

“Sir, no! I can-”

“Relax, Mr. Scott. It’s not some kind of punishment.” He folded his hands on his desk. “About a week ago I got a request from Admiral Archer.” He smiled slightly. “I didn’t know you used to be his aide. Explains a lot.” 

Scotty opened his mouth to ask what was meant by that, but Pike went on. 

“Anyway, he’s putting together a research program that’s looking into the future of transport beaming.” 

“Oh I go’lots of ideas there, sir. One or two in particular that have the science technically  _ there _ , just need ta be put into practice is all.” 

Captain Pike nodded. “I’m sure you will bullhead your way to a solution, Mr. Scott. Hence why Archer is asking for you back. Wants his former top student’s take on it.” 

“Well, I’ll certainly do mah best, sir.” 

“Yeah, I know. You leave tomorrow, 0700. Start packing after your shift.”

Scotty nodded, already standing. “Thank ya, sir.” 

“Oh, and, Mr. Scott.”

He paused.

“I know I’ve been pretty lax about your… let’s say off-script modifications to this ship. But Miner brought up a point I feel I should reiterate for sake of due diligence.” He glanced up, made sure he had the younger man’s undivided attention. “No upgrade, no development, no breakthrough, is too important to ignore in-place safety measures. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing proper. Got it?” 

“Aye, sir. Understood, sir.” 

“Alright. Go. Have fun and tell Archer hi for me, huh?” 

“Will do sir.” The lieutenant smiled, leaving quickly, lacking a salute or even a proper goodbye. It had Pike wondering for a moment if he was ever going to meet anyone as negligent of the rulebook as Mr. Scott. 

…

Packing didn’t take long after his shift was finished. It was a bit disappointing actually to realize he had so little to box up. Scotty sat on his single-sized bed and stared into the opposing closet, now cleared out of his engineering reds, casual flannels, and that stupid “Absolutely 0 People Think Kelvin is Cool” graphic T-shirt from Clara - a joke that didn’t fly all that well in Starfleet considering the  _ Kelvin’s _ demise a quarter century ago. But it still made him smile to see it, and it’d doubled as an undershirt shirt more than once when he’d forgotten to send off his laundry order. 

His eyes drifted over to his PADD and he wondered for a brief moment if he should call and tell her the news. She’d love to hear from him. But he knew she’d been very busy lately. Her work as a county solicitor had increased with her last promotion. Plus she did things, social things, like house parties and environmental protection projects.

Scotty looked back at the empty closet, at the Starfleet duffle stuffed full of the closet’s previous contents. It all fit. Tools, texts, that emergency flask of Scotch he kept under his bed. His life in a bag half the size of himself. 

He opened the bag with a sigh and fished out the flask, took a hit. 

Starfleet was supposed to have been the beginning of new and exciting things. And it was, to a degree. He’d worked on the ship’s warp core, decluttered the innards of the Jefferies Tubes, rewired the main network conductor relays to more quickly transmit data. They were challenging projects, sure, but in the way a game of chess is a challenge. Brain teasers, his granny would’ve called them. Something to exercise the ‘ole gray matter. But nothing to really… stimulate it. 

Bored. 

The worst swear word imaginable. 

You’re _ bored _ . 

That dirty phrase echoed in his head. 

Bored was not good. Bored lead to destructive tendencies. Bored was… Bored was supposed to be over once he’d entered Starfleet. 

But instead it had been the same fight as always. Let me do it my way, my way is better, he’d argue. But a book would be tossed in his hands despite evidence clearly showing the contrary. Follow the rules. No room for experimentation in outer space. Follow your orders. Your superiors know more than you. 

Only Archer had really ever let him explore his ideas without such restraint. 

He took another swig of dark amber liquid. “This’ll be good, righ’?” he asked the duffle before him, only thing around to listen. Maybe he’d pop off to the Ten Forward or cafe, spend some time with co-workers. There were a few he did actually like. He knew he should say goodbye to them. 

_ “Socialize a bit, Monty,” _ his sister’s voice repeated from an earlier call that year. It had been around his birthday, he thought.  _ That long ago? _

Another glance at the PADD. He had good news; he should call. 

Another sip. 

He should say goodbye. 

Another. 

Should. Should meant rules and fuck the rules. 

He polished off the flask. He hadn’t meant to. 

With a heavy sigh he tucked it away and asked the Computer to set an alarm for his early morning. 

_ You’re gonna further the future of space travel, _ he reminded himself.  _ This is special. Feel happy about this. You were picked for this. It’s something you can do, what you want to do. _

But he knew deep down that after a week of research and group discussions he would once again be bored. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to the Chapter 2 People. Thank you for sticking around. 
> 
> Warnings for chapter - explicit language, bullying

**Chapter Two**

**_2232.09.17_ **

The bell rang, sharp and shrill and heart-stopping. Monty looked away from the trails of droplets of rain hitting the window pane and his mental calculations of the surface tension of the glass. How much exactly did the SiO 2 compound of glass absorb from each drop? He tried to recall the study he’d read with Granny last week but couldn’t seem to access the memory. He was noticing that more and more with the weekly hyposprays that contained the “focusing up” formula all the teachers had advised he get. They made him tired too, or maybe that was just growing pains like his mum had insisted. Either way the holoboard was fuzzy from his seat near the back of the room where a month ago it hadn’t been. Not that he cared what the teacher wrote on it anyway. They were studying geometry - lines and shapes and how to find their surface area. He knew all that, could recite the equation for surface area of a dodecahedron in his sleep. 

He went back to looking out the window. SiO 2 was standard for glass and absorbed…

“Good morning, class.” 

Monty looked forward to see another instructor had joined the class, standing at the front of the room, a kid about Monty’s age next to her. He was round, had heavy lenses over his eyes, and crooked teeth that were revealed by his nervous smile. Monty didn’t blame him. He hated being up in front of the class. 

“Everyone, meet Ed’ie Fisher. He’s new here, in from London.” 

A scattered few hellos chorused across the classroom. Eddie waved back, a small motion that had Monty feeling sympathetic.  _ Shy _ , he categorized. He related. 

“Why don’ you take a seat over there by Monty,” the teacher instructed. Eddie nodded, if anything to be polite, and waddled over to the empty desk between Monty and Rob Mitchell. 

Eddie had barely sat down before Rob sniped, “Wha’ ya or’ered ya own shield, Scott? Cannae take another pen tossed at ya head so ya brough’ in this lug?”

Monty just took notes from the board which quickly devolved into a sketch of a catapult to launch pens back at Rob and at double the velocity. 

Rob went on to tease the newcomer, “How’d ya mess up yer eyes, there? Mum drop ya on yer face ‘cause ya were too heavy? Wha’ ya weigh, anyway?” 

Monty snapped his head up, ready to instantly defend Eddie, shared shy bond and all, but found he didn’t have to. 

“Enough to shove you back into your mum’s cunt.” 

Rob’s eyes widened. Monty’s jaw dropped. 

“A’right ya little shit,” Rob started. 

Eddie took off his glasses and started cleaning them. “What? Some threat of physical or verbal violence. I’ve ‘erd em all. You’re nothing special.” 

“Is tha’ a challenge, lardface?” 

Eddie put his glasses back on. “If you want it to be. But I’ll warn you,” he turned to look at him dead on, voice dropping in volume while sacrificing none of its intensity, “I switched schools for anger issues.” 

Rob scoffed but went back to his own work on his desk. Monty however was stunned. He had bruises on his temple from where Rob’s holopad pen had struck him the other day and now there was this  _ wall _ between him and anything Rob wanted to throw his way. 

Eddie didn’t say anything else for the duration of the lesson and when the bell rang, Monty leapt up to follow him out into the hall. 

“Uh, thanks,” he expressed quietly. 

Eddie shrugged. “Didn’t do it for you.” 

“Well, yeah, bu’ still.” 

Eddie looked at him then, took in the ginger hair and fading freckles, the slight build and the fraying straps on his bookbag. But it was the T-shirt, the _ Flying Machines 2: Mega Build Edition  _ graphic T-shirt, that caught his interest. Literally no one in his life had ever played the first game, let alone the second one. “You like FM2?” 

Monty looked down at his shirt, pinching the bottom corners of it to better see the design. “Yeah. They grea’ly improved the mechanics of the World War 2 era bombers, and the Federation shuttlecraft finally had the option of a warp factor inver’er stabilizer, which only hammers home how ridiculous it was tha’ they lef’ it off de first game. A shuttlecraft could never dock properly if it was bouncing ‘round space without an inverter stabilizer.”

Eddie nodded, small smile on his face. “I like crashing them.” 

“Di’ya see the gun turrets they added to the 2164 MACO C-Class tank?” 

“You can get those?” 

“Ya have ta unlock the level. I can show ya at lunch. I have the game on my holopad.” 

“Sounds brilliant.” Eddie stuck out his hand. “Friends call me Fish.” 

“Everyone calls me Monty.” He reached out his own hand to shake Eddie’s. 

“What class do you have next, Mont?” 

Monty scowled at the nickname but answered, “Literature. You?” 

“Science.” 

“Don’ worry abou’ Mr. Bixley. His eye is fake; he likes to do tha’ to keep everyone in line.” 

“Do what?” 

Monty smiled. “You’ll see.” He tucked his hand under his bookbag strap and shouldered it better. “See ya at lunch?” 

“Yeah. I’ll bring my own holo and we can swap fuselages.” 

“You ain’t get’ing my 2190 PX Shuttle.” 

“Well then you can’t have my Starship nacelles.” 

Monty’s eyes widened to full moons. “Ya sayin’ ya unlocked Federation nacelles?” 

“Got them for a steal from a kid in my old school, some posh boy looking to impress a girl. He ‘ad no idea ‘ow to play.”

Monty laughed. “I like you, Fish.” 

“Well good. ‘Cause anyone who plays FM2 and knows the importance of nacelles is automatically my friend.” 

**_2258.08.11_ **

The shuttlecraft rocked violently to the left, and Scotty rolled his eyes. Someone had not been taking care of the starboard-side inverter stabilizer, which meant every reentry from warp was going to thrash to the left. Hard. Everyone was in for a rough docking too; you couldn’t mess up reentry that badly and still maintain a steady enough trajectory to fit the shuttle slides in proper. 

“They call that a reentry,” the man to Scotty’s right grumbled, casting a glance at the young female pilot currently in training. Her instructor gave some direction but Scotty could see where the older pilot had his hands on the co-pilot’s yoke, ready to take over the docking. Scotty felt bad for her; the rough reentry wasn’t her fault. 

“Shotty inverter,” Scotty answered. “They tend to go off on these Magellan-class shuttlecraft quite easily.” 

“Well then a work order should’ve been put in weeks ago.” The man sniffed indignantly and fiddled with the buckle on his seat belt. 

Scotty looked back at the pilot and frowned. The inverter wouldn’t be a difficult fix for an experienced mechanic, but this model was clearly a test-craft and those tended to not get the TLC others did. Why heavily service something that was both gone often on training routines and likely to get damaged or strained from inexperienced hands? Especially when engineering crews on the hub between Starfleet Academy and the rest of outer space were busy with the big flagships weight class. 

The connection with the shuttle slides was about as rough as he expected, pitching the passengers left and forcing the snooty man next to him into Scotty’s shoulder. 

“For crying out-” the man glared at the pilot and her instructor, “You mind flying a straight line.” 

“Oi set’le down, arigh’,” Scotty chastised. “Nothing they can do.” 

The man scoffed, undoing his seat buckle as the shuttle came to a stop in the slides. He stood and grabbed his luggage from the secured rack above their seats. He stopped in front of Scotty and pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You say it’s an engineering problem? Then the lot of you move your lazy asses and actually  _ fix _ the problem.” 

“Okay, sir,” the instructing pilot coaxed, gently guiding the man off the shuttle as the other passengers followed a few steps behind, “why don’t we get you set up with an HR representative so you can…” 

His voice faded, leaving only Scotty and pilot-in-training quietly sitting on the shuttle. She sighed and began typing away on her PADD, post flight check boxes being ticked off at a slower pace than normal, mumbling to herself in what he guessed to be Spanish. 

“Lemme see tha’,” Scotty directed, holding out a hand for the PADD. 

She handed it to him with a frown. “Sir, if you’d like to submit a formal complaint-”

“I’m naw' complainin’. I’m filling out a work order so I can open up the rear access hatch and fix yer inverter.” 

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” She took back the PADD and followed him out to the back of the shuttle craft. 

“Naw' fer twenty minutes, lassie. This here is a ten minute job.” He reached for the HGN lines and got a shock for his trouble. “Motherfucker shit!” Right. Disengage the converter power line to the fuel cells. “Alrigh’. Fifteen minutes.” 

The pilot-in-training watched him get to work, fingers drumming nervously against her PADD. She glanced down at it, checked the name on the work order. Lt. Montgomery Scott. After he narrowly avoided getting shocked a second time she began to wonder just how the Lieutenant part had ever been achieved. 

“Okay, there ya go, lassie. I reattached the fuel lines and bypassed the terminal juncture with a jumper wire so now yer negative charge lines cycle back and yer positive charge gets grounded out before returning to the terminal.” 

She stared blankly.

“I fixed it.” He closed the hatch. “Well improved it actually. Shouldn’t go out again like it did for at least the next five years, even with all the extra strain these poor girls undergo bein’ trainin’ models.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “Can I have yer PADD so I can finish the work order?” 

She handed it over a bit hesitantly. 

“Right.” He passed it back. “Wha’s my time?” 

“Uh, she glanced at her PADD. “Twelve minutes, sir.” 

He nodded. “‘Bout righ’.” He patted the ship’s hull. “Got mah start workin’ on vessels like these. Be good to her, arigh’.” Whether he was talking to the ship or the pilot was unclear. 

Scotty picked up his duffle bag and began making his way down the hangar towards the sunny afternoon light of San Fransisco only to be stopped a moment later by a hand on his arm. 

“Sorry, but what the hell!”

Scotty raised a brow at the young pilot. 

“That’s it? Twelve minutes and I’m good to go. Seriously?” 

“Aye. Why wouldn’t ya be?” 

“Well for starters, I typically can’t even get someone to come over to my ship in twelve minutes, let alone fix the  _ maldito _ thing. I’m lucky if I get a ‘we’re very busy and will get to your order, time permitting, within the next fourteen days’ notice.” 

“Wha’ if it’s something critical?” 

“Then they give me a new shuttle. That one’s my third this semester. And I know it sounds superstitious or something but how am I supposed to learn complicated flight maneuvers when the handling of my craft switches every month?”

“A, not superstitious. Magellan-class shuttles vary widely in handling due to humidity exposure in their plant of origin messing with the infrawelds in the chassy joint connections. And B, I’d argue experiencing different craft handlings would be good training.” 

“Okay well how’d you like it, Mr. Engineer, if someone switched out all your tools every few weeks?” 

“Are they jus’ as good? ‘Cause if so, fine.” 

The pilot narrowed her eyes, dark brown eyes turning flinty. 

Scotty sighed, re-adjusting his bag on his shoulder. “I’m naw' tryin’ ta be a prick here, lassie. But tha’s space out there. And more of’en than naw' yer gonna be outside yer comfort zone.” 

Her frown stayed but her eyes softened some. 

Scotty hiked his bag further onto his shoulder. “That said, ya cannae fly a broken ship.” He pointed to her PADD. “They give ya another one of those fourteen day no’ices, put mah name on the work order and I’ll come over as soon as I geh a chance.” 

Clutching the PADD a little closer, she asked. “Why?” 

“Why wha’?” 

“Why are you helping me?” 

Scotty sighed shaking his head. “Donnae give me tha’ kind a credit, lassie. Tha’ bastard all but dared me ta fix yer ship. And the project I’m here ta work on is gonna require lots of late nights thinkin’ through complicated stuff. Now mah mind works best when mah hands are busy and mah mouth is runnin’, so way I see it, if good work gehs done in the process, then why naw'.” 

The pilot seemed to think it over a moment before nodding and relaxing her stance. “Okay.” She stuck out her hand. “Cadet Vanessa Menerez, by the way.” 

“Scotty.” He took her hand and shook it, hiking his bag to sit comfortably on his shoulder once more. “I’m late now, aren’t I?” 

Vanessa checked her PADD’s clock. “Yeah.” 

Scotty nodded, face screwing up into annoyance, though mostly at himself. He should’ve just let that bastard’s words go and gone on to the inaugural meeting like a normal, sane person. But no, some idiot yells at him to fix a bloody ship and he… 

“I know a guy in sick bay who can infect you with a very light case of lung worms,” Vanessa offered. “Makes for a great legit excuse.” 

“Uh, rain check, yeah.” He nodded back towards the shuttle. “Go easy on her.” 

“No promises.” She tapped at her PADD. “And thanks.” 

He nodded and turned to leave, figuring he might as well reacquaint Admiral Archer to his tardiness. Scotty O’ Clock, Clara had called it once.  _ Lives in his own time zone. _ But that was just another great part about working in space: there was no time. No time, no direction, no blinding ass sunlight frying one’s skin. Since when was San Francisco sunny? Scotty recalled his rainy academy days that reminded him of home. 

He stopped. Physically stopped. 

He was on Earth. He’d been on Earth for twenty-five minutes and the idea of going back home, even for a visit, had never crossed his mind. 

_ You’ll be busy with studies,  _ he told himself as he started walking again.  _ This isn’t a bloody vacation; Clara will understand that _ . He hadn’t even called her yet to let her know he was here, sharing soil with her location and just… 

_ Right. Building six, room 309. Sort everything else out later. _

He arrived fifteen minutes late and wondered briefly if blaming it on a bad reentry would be too cruel to Vanessa. The flying wasn’t her fault and really she’d been cool about him practically appropriating her ship to be his tinkering project, so throwing her under the bus, even as a non-defined excuse, felt wrong. 

_ Might as well get it over with.  _

He braced himself and opened the door, apology already tumbling from his mouth and only stopping when his mind finally caught up to what Admiral Archer was saying. 

“No need for excuses, Mr. Scott.” Archer pressed on. “I’m quite familiar with your tardiness.” He smiled gently, lines etched into his face with age deppening with the action. “And you’re not the last to arrive,” He indicated a dark haired man rushing in behind Scotty, his own apology dying halfway through. “Lt. Blanchett, thank you for joining us. Now if you two will take a seat and we’ll get started.” 

Trying to hide his surprise, Scotty slipped into the chair beside the dark-haired man, placing his PADD on the long table that stretched nearly wall to wall in the room. The familiar surroundings of stair-stepped desks and crammed little chairs felt oddly comforting as Archer wheeled over and began introducing the program, explaining that they’d formally meet twice a week and examine their progress, ideas. It was a bit of a free for all as far as specificity of study, but the goal for the assembled group was the same: create the future of transporter technology. 

“This is independent-study rules,” Archer went on, “but working together is strongly encouraged.” He folded his ancient hands over his lap, eyes scanning the assembly. “This group has been selected, hand-picked, to come together and make the future better for everyone. Credit will be given where credit is due, but I can assure you, that future can only be achieved through the minds of everyone here. So we’ll have our first real meeting next Tuesday. I suggest you spend the time in between getting to know those around you. They are, quite literally, your future.”

A scattered chuckle rippled across the students. Archer excused himself saying he had a meeting to attend. Once out of the room, students began striking up conversations amongst gathering PADDs and other personal echumermants. 

“Your medical examine run over too?” The dark haired man asked.

Scotty shook his head. “Haven’t goh mine yet. Scotty, by the way.”

“William Blanchett,” the dark-haired man introduced. “And I know who you are.”

Scotty raised a brow. 

“You remember Velit Drake?” 

“Yeah, he was mah roommate first year.” 

“He was mine second.” 

“Bit of an odd duck, tha’ one.” 

“You’re telling me.” Will grinned, shaking his head. “Spoke about you though. Something about late-night project work, days with no sleep.” Will lowered his voice, “Drinking everyone under the table.” 

Scotty began gathering his things. “Well I aimed to keep a certain amount of work-life balance during my academy years.” 

Will laughed. “Sure, okay. Whatever you want to call it.” He paused a moment. “Still keeping a work-life balance?” 

“I’m naw' teetotal if that’s wha’ yer askin’, jus’ a bit more restrained these days.” Scotty switched the subject, not really wanting to dwell on some of this school-day extracurricular activities. “Are ya a science division like Drake then?” 

Will shook his head. “Ops. Focus in digital interfacing.” 

“Screen jockey.” 

“Better than a grease monkey.” 

“Hey now. Those Constitution-Class ships use a multi-polymer lubricant tha’s a far cry from grease.” 

“You would defend the ship instead of your career.” 

“Tha’s how us grease monkeys do.” 

Will grinned shaking his head. “No. I think that might be a you thing. But hey, if you need anything coded up, let me know. I’m the best there is.” 

“Might haf’ta take ya up on that offer. Not much of an IT guy these day.” 

“I can help get you back into the swing if you want. I promise the basics are still the same. And maybe in exchange you can brush up my Mech E knowledge.” 

“Fair enough a deal.” 

They shook hands, Scotty satisfied the project was off to a good start.  _ Already made a friend, _ he thought. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've met Fish (who is "not" Nick Frost. I'd apologize but their friendship is important to me.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, making it to Chapter 3! Look at you go! 
> 
> Chapter warnings - Verbal child abuse/neglect

**Chapter Three**

**_2234.05.12_ **

Eddie Fisher swung his legs back and forth, heels kicking the old stone wall he sat upon. Ivy rustled with the movement, leaves protesting his harsh treatment. In the distance he could see Goms following the stone trail up to the castle ruins they’d agree to meet at, backpack bouncing on his shoulders from the boy’s near stomping. Goms was upset. Fish knew anger, knew its look, its feel, its  _ existence _ . Goms was rarely angry. But when he’d messaged Fish about meeting up for some laser testing at the the castle up the hill, Fish had suspected something was up. 

“Goh the laser?” Goms asked, voice flinty. 

Fish nodded, pulling out the military-grade laser he’d stolen from his father’s lab. “What are we lasering?” 

Goms grinned, although it failed to crinkle up his hazel eyes. A cold grin was rare on Fish’s friend and it had him a bit concerned. Goms slung his backpack off his shoulder and yanked it open to reveal dozens of Hyposprays all prescribed to Montgomery Scott. 

“Take it you’re going off your meds.” 

“Been off ‘em awhile.” He nodded towards the open countryside that bordered the old castle ruins. “Time ta destroy the evidence.” 

Fish nodded, going along with this plot. He’d come to hate the medicine almost as much as Goms did - how it turned his friend into a tired, robotic, sad version of his usual self. Goms was never meant to follow the rules, that’s one of the reasons their friendship was so strong: Goms made his own rules and Fish was good at following them. 

“Destroying evidence seems to imply ya got caught,” Fish pointed out, setting up the laser. It had incredible range but maintained a safety block to keep it from traveling too far. The stretch of field before them was more than enough precaution. 

“Mum found out,” was all Goms answered. He took the hypos and began lining them up, neat rows like soldiers. This was a firing squad. A firing squad on Gom’s anger at being told he was sick.  _ Do yer work. If yer so bored do yer schoolwork. I don’t care if it’s boring, Monty, yer failn’.  _ His mother’s voice, tired from nursing Clara back to health after her latest fit - Goki-N’mels’s Disease, they were whispering. She’d already begun to lose her hearing. 

Mum was exhausted and fed up and  _ disappointed _ . She’d set the hypo at his place at the kitchen table that morning, eyes daring him not to take it. He’d known then that she knew he’d been skipping the dose. Granny had been covering for him. And now she was adamant on defending he wasn’t sick, wasn’t lazy, nothing was  _ wrong _ with him. He was wired differently, just like her. Saw the world in math and physics and things to fix. But Mum had made him take it. He’d spent the morning with his brain all fuzzy, his stomach sour. 

Around two in the afternoon the brain fog began to lift and he’d set about going to work. Fish was necessary to the plan. Fish was always necessary. Fish was the first tool, first material, first item on every one of his lists. 

“‘Ow long we got to get ‘em blasted out?” Fish asked, sighting up the laser with Gom’s row of hypo soldiers. 

“Mum’s at hospital with Clara.” 

“‘Nother fit?” 

Goms nodded solemnly. “Granny’s gone ‘round to her friend Rita’s.” 

“Sounds like we’ve got the whole afternoon.” 

Goms nodded again. 

“Just saying we could, ya know, make those little bastards suffer.” 

There was that grin he knew so well, the one wide and wild and mischievous with squinty eyes and crinkled faded-freckled cheeks. That was his friend’s grin when the brains of their operation had a brilliant idea; those happened often. Fish rubbed at his bruised knuckles and tried not to be jealous. Goms was smart and he wasn’t; those were just truths, just the rules. 

“Alrigh’ then, Fishy. How abou’ one quar’er power, just ta give those little fuckers a sting in retaliation for the sting they gave me.” 

“Yer the boss, Gommy.” He set the laser and aimed it at the Hyposprays. “Fire in the ‘ole.” 

The laser nicked the middle hypo and a hiss of air followed by a puff of the medication rose up in the air. 

Fish frowned. “Not that exciting.” 

Goms tapped a finger to his chin. “Try a double shot.” 

“Same power?” 

“Aye.” 

This time as the medicine hissed into the air, the second laser shot hit it and for a brief moment caught the gas on fire. 

“Boom!” Goms cheered. “Half power now, Fish. Le’s see if we can get a fireball.” 

Fish reset the power on the laser and off of Gom’ signal, fired away. The blast barely registered and Goms instantly raced up to the laser to see what broke. “It should’a done a much higher… oh.” 

“What’s wrong with it?” Fish asked, crowding around Goms to see what was broken. His dad was going to kill him if he’d damaged the expensive piece of equipment. 

“Uh, well, nothin’s broken. Ya just se’it at .05 percent instead of .5.” 

Fish took a step back, shoulders falling. “Fuck.” 

“It’s okay, Fish. Just a lit’le mix up with the numbers. I can fix-”

“Of course you can fix it!” Fish’s face pinched as he yelled, a familiar strain around his eyes. “You’re bloody Montgomery Scott, you can fix anything!” His hands tightened into fists, stretching his bruised knuckles. He winced at the sudden intense pain, snapping him out of the red rage clawing at the edges of his vision. 

Goms looked shaken, worried, even a bit sad; Fish could feel the cold that came with sadness rolling off him. Fish wanted to take it back, he never meant for it to sound that way. “Goms, I…” 

“Wha’ he say this time?” 

“What?” 

“Yer da’.” 

“Goms.” 

“Fish, wha’ di’ he say?” 

Fish hung his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. “He called me stupid. Said I should be smarter.” He looked up but couldn’t keep his eyes on Goms, electing instead to look back down at the stone under his feet. “Said I should be smarter like you.” 

Goms didn’t move and Fish could feel the anger wafting off him, bright and harsh. Angry wasn’t supposed to be Goms’ state; Goms was the level-headed one, the happy one. Fish didn’t want Goms to be angry. 

“Yer not stupid, Fish.” 

“I’m not smart though, either.” 

“Yes ya are.” Goms sighed deeply, that level-headedness returning in degrees. It made Fish relax a bit too, less to feel. “Granny says there’s all kinds of smart. There’s book smart and people smart and words smart. Some people know more about survival than put’in somthing together, or maybe they know directions really well and can navigate better than anyone, but they’d be worthless in a kitchen or something. There’s all kinds of smart, Fish.” 

“What smart am I?” 

“Tha’s easy. Yer emotion smart.” 

Fish snorted, kicking a loose rock over the stone walkway into the field. “I punched a wall ‘till my knuckles went bloody ‘cause my dad called me stupid. I’m in no way emotion smart.” 

“But ya are. Yer so sensitive to it. Like the other night ya were over and the power went out with tha’ storm.” 

“You got the generator running.” 

“And ya made sure Clara had a torch ‘cause ya knew she was scared of the dark.” 

“So?” 

“So she never told ya tha’. Ya just felt she was afraid and ya helped her with it,” 

“She’s a little kid. It was a likely assumption.” 

“But  _ you _ made it. Tha’s wha’ I’m sayin,’ Fish. You know wha’ people are feelin’. And yeah, okay, sometimes I’m a wee bit jealous of it.” Goms turned away and reprogrammed the laser. It beeped an affirmative of the change. 

“You don’t gotta be jealous,” Fish muttered. “I’ll always be ‘ere to ‘elp you with people’s feelings.” 

“And I’ll let ya cheat off my maths tests ‘til we graduate.” 

“At Starfleet too?” 

Goms put a hand on Fish’s shoulder. “At Starfleet too.” He glanced down at Fish’s bruised knuckles. “Sure ya don’t wan’ Granny ta take a look at those?” 

“Nothing’s broken.” 

Goms nodded and double checked the laser. “Well then, fire when ready, Fish.” 

**2258.08.11**

The thing about being back on Earth was everyone had to get a routine medical checkup. The good news was that the clinic for the Academy was usually looking for patients since most of the staff was students looking for real world experience, meaning he could squeeze in a standard check up pretty easily. The bad news? Well she walked through the door. 

“No bloody way. Mira?” 

She sighed, something deep, dramatic, so all consuming it looked like it personally pained her. “Monty.” 

“Been ages. You still studying?” 

Mira opened her Tricorder and routinely began checking him over. “I get my doctorate this semester.” 

Scotty whistled low, impressed. “Ya always were clever.” 

Mira didn’t respond, moving on to her next device. 

“I’m not here for long. Well, tha’ migh’ naw' be true. Part of Archer’s new program. We’re working ta bet’er travel, ya know: transpo’ers, subspace relays. Those things.” 

“Roll up your sleeve.” 

He did so, grateful the black thermals worn under their uniforms were so flexible, lending the action a kind of dignity he wasn’t sure he’d have otherwise. God, she still made his chest pound, hands uncoordinated, mouth run a mile a minute. 

She placed a device on the crook of his arm, silent about the ancient Hypo scars there. Then again she knew all about them, little rings of raised skin from repeated doses. 

The device beeped. She frowned at him. “Your pulse is fast.” 

“Can ya blame me?” 

She rolled her eyes, removing the device. She picked up a subcranial wand next, moving it over his head. 

“Mira.” 

“Monty.” Her voice had a challenge to it. Simultaneously an order to keep quiet and a dare to continue on. 

“Are we naw' gonna talk abou’ it?” 

“About what?” 

His eyes glanced up to tan line on her left hand fourth finger. “A noticeable lack of ring.”

She crossed her arms, licking her lips in that way she did whenever she was trying to restrain her tongue. And oh what a talented tongue it was. 

“I take it things dinnea work ou’ then. You and him.” 

“That’s none of your business.” She tucked the wand away and began typing on her PADD, fingers striking the surface a little harder than necessary. 

“Well he’s a sorry sod ta loose ya.” 

She didn’t turn around. 

“Mira.” 

“What do you want me to say, Monty? That I’m sorry?” 

“Nah-”

“Then what?” She spun around, eyes bright with anger, frustration, flames deep in the brown of them, a forest fire with ruddy pine bark alight and smoke made his mouth snap shut for fear of inhaling its sharp toxicity. 

She returned to her PADD, fingers no less gentle until they found themselves hovering. “Monty-”

“Ya broke mah heart, lassie.” 

“I know that.” 

“I loved you.” 

“I know that too.” Her fingers found their movements and completed the needed paperwork to dismiss him. “Sign this.” She thrust the PADD at him, eyes stinging from the past taking the form of saltwater.

He signed the screen and handed it back to her, standing up to walk out, to leave once more. Maybe this time she wouldn’t be stupid enough to let him. “Have a drink with me.” 

“Wha’?”

“Smith’N’Shaws. Just like old times.” 

“Ya sure about this?” 

“It’s just a drink, Monty.” 

He grinned slyly, reaching around her to pick up his uniform shirt. “Wha’ time?” 

“I get off around 1800.” 

“Play yer cards righ’ and you’ll ge’off-”

She cut him off with a hand. “Don’t… just meet me there. Okay?” 

He nodded, turning to leave. 

“On time, Monty,” she called after him. It might have been a mistake but dammit. She’d missed him. And if that poor attempt at flirting meant anything, he’d missed her too.  _ This is going to get you in trouble, _ she thought, going on to her next appointment.  _ Big, Monty-shaped trouble. _

…

Smith’N’Shaws was as rowdy a place as they come. Psychedelic lights bounced off the walls in electric shocks of color. The music was thumping, loud and distracting, sporting the kind of bass that rattles the bottles behind the bar. Students and graduates in various states of drunkenness paraded around the sticky floor, yelling over the music or singing along. It was chaos. And yet Scotty found he liked being in the middle of it. 

He was nursing a beer when she strolled in, attire casual but not her uniform. Good, meant she wasn’t just here to tell him off. 

“Ya look great,” he commented as she took the stool next to him and caught the attention of the bartender. 

“Don’t…” she cautioned. But her tone had lost its sharpness from earlier. She looked exhausted. Drink in hand she took a long sip - gin and tonic, it was always gin and tonic - before sighing. “Okay.” 

“Wha’?” 

“Just,” she started, pausing for another sip. “Whatever you need to say to properly end this,” she held out her hand in indication for him to fill in the blank. 

Scotty narrowed his eyes. “This is about closure?” 

“Isn’t it?” She looked at him in disbelief. “What else would… oh.” 

“I di’ it again, didn’ I?” He stared at his own drink, frown deepening. 

Mira sighed. “Not entirely your fault. I should’ve been clearer this wasn’t a… ya know, date.” She took a drink. “Should’ve remembered I was dealing with-”

“An emotional illiterate.” He snap his gaze to her, eyes harder, hiding the hurt. “That is how ya described it, yeah?” 

“Are you gonna try and say that’s not at least vaguely true?” she bit back. “For God’s sake, Monty. You treated our whole relationship like a machine, thinking that if anything broke all you had to do was find what broke it and fix it. But that’s not how human beings work, is it?” 

“Could’ve helped if ya had act’ually wan’ed something fixed every now and then. But no, all ya wan’ed was to complain about how yer professor ha’ed ya, or someone called yer hair flat.” 

“And those were all something that you couldn’t magically make better so you had _no_ _idea_ what to do. Well it’s simple, you listen and then agree with me. There. Fixed!” 

“Oh like tha’ would’ve ever been good enough. Wha’ with all ya lec’ring about messes-

“-You  _ never _ picked up-”

“-and naw' wa’ring the plants-”

“-I asked you at least a hundred times.”

“Plants are supposed to be outdoors, Mira!” 

“They oxygenate the room!” 

“So do Jasper-Briggs ven’ilation systems!” 

“There it is. There is fucking is. What  _ equipment _ can make this situation bigger, better.” 

“Well ya answered tha’ yerself when ya went and found yer own bigger and bet’er ‘equipment’ now didn’ ya.” 

Mira’s jaw shut, eyes murderous. “Don’t.” 

“Where is he anyway? Couldn’t stand yer bullshit either?” 

“He died, you moron!” 

Only the din of the bar filled the silence that followed. 

Scotty opened his mouth, shut it. Took a drink. Opened it again. Hands picking at the label on the beer bottle. Closed it. Then, “Mira, I… I’m so sorry.” 

“I know.” She finished her dink with two swigs. 

“I… I should probably go.” He stood, gathering his jacket. 

“Monty,” she murmured, eyes locked straight ahead to the wall of various alcohols on display. The set in them told him it wasn’t the first long look she’d given that wall. “Stay.” 

“Mira, I don’t-”

“Please.” 

It was so quiet. So desperate. So lonely. Any fight, any fire from before had been snuffed out, choked to death from lack of oxygen. He had a strange thought about how the bar could use some bloody plants. 

“Okay.” He sat back down and ordered a scotch - neat - and a glass of water.  _ Balanced _ he reminded himself. “Ya okay?” 

Mira sighed long and laborious. “I’ve been slowly getting there for almost two years now.” 

“It takes time.” 

“I know that.” 

“Ya can do this. Yer one of the strong ones, love.” 

“I know that too.” 

He went back to picking at the bottle label. “Mira-”

“Why now, Monty?” She scoffed, eyes a little misty. “Why when I was just feeling like I could move on do  _ you _ show up?” 

Scotty looked at the amber in his glass, at the way it moved over the surface. _ How much exactly does the SiO _ _ 2 _ _ compound of glass absorb from each drop? _ “I don’t know, Mira.” He took a drink, familiar burn going down his throat. “Maybe…look, alrigh’ we could chose ta see this as some kinda cosmic coincidental second chance or something.” 

“Or?” 

“Or we could finish our drinks in silence, order another round, and then start over.” 

“Start over?” 

“Yeah. Just… hard reset, ya know?” 

She sighed, but a slight smile pulled at the corners of her lips. “Same old Monty. Coming up with a fix.” 

“Is tha’ really a bad thing?” 

She didn’t reply, electing instead to poke at the ice in her drink. “Finish that scotch so we can get to the starting over part.” 

He smiled, doing exactly as she requested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Things are still falling in place, but trust me, once this ride takes off, it goes Warp Speed. 
> 
> (I'd also like to point out I'm not taking a complete anti-ADD/ADHD meds stance. There are cases where it helps and those it benefits.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up to Chapter 4! Whoo-hoo! 
> 
> Chapter Warnings - minor character death

**Chapter Four**

**_2237.12.16_ **

“Ya feelin’ any better, Granny?” 

Gemma looked up from her book to see Monty peeking around the door jamb. A pair of welding goggles sat up on his forehead, soot streaks across his nose covered the last of his freckles. She’d been a bit sad to see them fade out, knowing it meant he was growing up. But growing up meant moving on to greater things, better things. No doubt whatever project he’d been working on in the garden shed - the one he’d all but converted into a workshop - was for a neighbor in exchange for some pocket credits. With Clara’s treatments and Rory and Geri’s finalized divorce, Monty fixing odds and ends for folks was often what kept his mind occupied these days, distracted from those difficult things. 

“Oh a wee bit, laddie. Mostly jus’ tired.” She nodded towards the chair that sat beside her bed. If Monty was in here checking on her and not weathering his concern being out in his shop, it meant he wanted to talk about what was bothering him, to which she’d happily extend an invitation to sit and listen. 

Monty took the motioned-to chair and slowly took off the googles, rubbing at his dirty face with his flannel sleeve. Gemma briefly wondered if he was warm enough out there. 

“Granny, can I ask ya something?”

“Anything,  _ a chuilein _ .” 

Monty fiddled with the goggles, smearing a soot smudge with his thumb. “Fish is going with Sarah Kettleman to a school dance tomorrow night.” 

“Tha’s nice. Are ya goin’ too?” 

“No, I… well see Sarah asked me first.” 

“You fancy her?” 

“Aye, yeah, very much so.” 

“Then why didn’t ya say yes?” 

“Well ‘cause... “ he played with the rubber band on the googles a moment, “‘cause Fish and I both fancy her. Ya know, she’s like tha’ one girl ya both talk abou’. Tha’ fantasy one that ya make jokes about bein’ married to when ya make it rich and wha’not.” He traced the edge of the google’s lenses. “She’s not sup’ose to ever talk ta ya, let alone ask ya to a dance.” 

Gemma closed her book and set it aside. “Let me guess. Ya said no because ya panicked.” 

“No, I said no because I didn’t think it’d be fair to Fish if I said yes. He likes her too, but I assumed he’d have the decency to extend the same...” pinching the nosepiece on the goggles suddenly registered as being painful, “I assumed he’d say no too.” 

“Did you talk to him about it?” 

“No.”

“But yer upset by it.” 

“Well I’m allowed ta be, righ’? It’s like datin’ yer best mate’s ex; ya just don’t. Ya be a decent friend and ya just… don’t.” 

Gemma sighed deeply, fighting the urge to cough. The pain in her lungs had only gotten worse from yesterday and the doctor had done little more than tell her to drink fluids and get plenty of rest. “Monty, let me tell ya somethin’. There will always be a girl. Her size and shape and name will change over the years, but there’ll always be a lass makin’ yer head spin and ya findin’ yerself doin’ foolish things fer her. And then one day you’ll meet  _ the _ girl, and you’ll find tha’ all those foolish things become fond remin’ers of how madly in love ya are with her. 

“Now I cannae see the future, but I highly suspect tha’ day’s a long way off. In the meantime, ya goh a friend who’s won’ring why his best mate, who he cares for a grea’ lot, is naw' talkin’ ta him. There’ll always be pretty girls, Monty. But it’s yer best mate you’ll want by yer side if one’ov ‘em breaks yer heart.” 

Monty seemed to consider this, running his thumb again over the smudge on the goggles. “Yer sayin’ I should talk ta him.” 

“Aye. But whenever yer ready, Monty. It’s alrigh’ ta be upset fer a bit. Just don’t le’it mar up wha’ ya have.” 

Monty nodded slowly, eventually securing the goggles back on his forehead. “Thanks, Granny.” He leaned over and gave her cheek a quick kiss. “Ge’ feelin’ bet’er.” 

“Oh,  _ a chuilein _ , I’ll be right as rain in no time.” She picked up her book as Monty left to go back to the workshop. She called out before he disappeared to put on another coat. It was a wee bit chilly out there after all. 

…

Fish knew Monty was mad at him. Anger, was easy to feel, all red and bitter. This was colder though, more like sadness. And there were his own feelings, magnified, multiplied, all sicky-sour jealousy and stone-hard pride. None of it was good feeling, comfortable. 

He’d wanted to apologize but he found he wasn’t all that sorry. Sarah had asked him,  _ him _ , to this dance and he was bloody gonna go to it with her. But that didn’t mean it made it any easier to not see Monty at lunch or right after classes. He was avoiding him and that fucking hurt. 

Still, that night as he danced with Sarah in the cool LEDx lighting to blaring loud music and various students’ laughter, he had to admit he was having a great time.  _ Be better if Goms were here _ . But he wasn’t and it wasn’t his responsibility to have made him come, especially if he didn’t want to. 

So why did he feel guilty?

“Grab me a drink, yeah?” Sarah asked and Fish nodded enthusiastically. He grabbed some punch and turned to meet her at one of the few tall tables along the walls of the gym. He handed her her cup and checked his Comm for the umpteenth time to see if Goms had called or messaged him. Anything. 

“Hey, I’m gonna dance with Kai and the rest fer a bit,” Sarah announced.

Fish nodded, suddenly unconcerned with Sarah Kettleman as he had three new missed calls from Goms. 

He made his way into the corridor where it was quieter and called back. Goms answered immediately, and Fish felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “What’s wrong, Gommy?” 

There was an unmistakable wet sound to his voice as he answered. “Granny’s dead.”

Everything else faded away as he replied, “I’ll be right there.”

A message to Sarah’s Comm, a call to a hovercab, and fifteen minutes after hearing the news, Fish walked right in and found Goms sandwiched on the sofa between Clara and his mum with her arm gently around his shoulders. 

“Fish.” He stood and held tightly to his friend, unconcerned with his visible tears. 

The rest of it didn’t matter. The dance, Sarah, what he’d been upset about, all of it faded. His friend needed him. And so he’d come. 

**2258.09.03**

“Quick question: What are your thoughts on Si’rika’s notes about gravitational differences creating subspace relay noise?” 

“I agree with her notion tha’ grav-diffs factor inta relay noise, but the likelihood of them being the root cause of transmissional decay in deep space isn’t grea’. We geh clear transmissions from deep space sta’ions just fine so long as they have an external communica’ion buoy properly installed with grav-diff compensa’ors. Mah guess is the distor’ion she’s picking up on is due ta dark matter interference. And  _ tha _ ’ is a whole other animal.” Scotty looked up to see Will on screen, shaking his head amused. “Wha’?” 

“Just... Drake was right. You know your stuff.” 

“ _ El es un nerd grande _ ,” Vanessa jumped in, tilting Scotty’s PADD she was holding - it had been so he could see some schematic better until Will interrupted - to make sure Blanchett saw her exasperated expression. “A  _ giant _ nerd _.” _

Will cracked his knuckles, stretching out the joints, and ignoring ‘Nessa’s comment. “Want me to write that all up for our report due tomorrow?” 

Scotty nodded, already reabsorbed in his own research; he wondered if he could get some grapefruits from the canteen… 

“Scotty?” 

Vanessa nudged his shoulder. 

He looked up to see Will appearing expectant. “Sorry, wasn’ listening.” 

“That’s obvious.” But there was no hostility in it. 

Scotty liked that about Will. He never seemed bothered by any of his quirks. 

“I said are you free tonight to go over that reading about neutrino differentials.” 

“Oh, uh… actually no. I’ve… kinda goh a date.” 

“Really?” Vanessa’s brows narrowed.

Will wasn’t quite so insulting. “That so? Getting some tail while in C.A. Nice.” 

“Not exactly. It’s an ex. We’re.. Seeing if there’s any spark left.” 

“Is there?” 

‘Nessa’s eyes widened in inquiry, apparently asking the same question. 

Scotty cleared his throat. “Well let’s just say we might both have the same neon transformer, but our stoichiometric atmospheres are different.” 

“Nessa’s right; you are a nerd.”

“Thank you!” she expressed. 

Will continued, “Well hey, how about we meet for breakfast and discuss it before class. That is if you’re not already having breakfast in bed.” The sly grin was wholly unnecessary, but Scotty ignored the drama the man was trying to stir up. 

“I doubt tha’, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” 

“Anytime, Scotty.” The background behind Will moved, indicating he picked up his PADD. He dropped sunglasses over his eyes. “Now, off to run circles around a bunch of newbies.” 

“Enjoy.” 

“Always do.”

Will signed off, venturing to his “club meeting,” an unofficial group of like-minded IT Ops staff that collectively tested Starfleet security for holes.  _ White-hat hacking _ , Will called it. Scotty was familiar with the process, and not too shabby at it himself, especially since Will had given him a refresher course and Scotty had added some articles and papers on the subject to his PADD’s library next to the Mech E Bible: George Turk’s  _ 1001 Machines and Their Interworkings,  _ the blueprints for Vanessa’s Galileo class shuttle, and the  _ Oklahoma Starship Yard Monthly Newsletter _ that he didn’t remember signing up for. He kept meaning to unsubscribe from that, but found he rather liked the content. Interesting stuff. 

“He’s such a jackass.” 

Scotty shot Vanessa a look to warn her off of her usual rant.  _ Wha’ don’t ya like abou’ him? _ he’d asked. She had shrugged and said she got a weird vibe. Scotty has chalked it up to ‘Nessa not really liking anyone of the male persuasion. And he had to admit, sometimes she was right. 

“Am I relieved of PADD stand duty?” she asked, voice tinged with annoyance. 

“Naw' until I find out wha’ the devil ya’ve done ta mah ship, Cadet?” he answered, gaze stern but grin on his lips. “I mean, these atmo grav-mags are so full’ov condensation I’m inclined ta think ya took her to London over the weekend?” He chuckled a little at his own joke. 

Vanessa had an odd look on her face but moved into rolling her eyes, shaking her head, and he tried not to think about how much she reminded him of Clara, about how he’d never replied to his sister’s inquiry of when he was coming for a visit.  _ Paul would love to meet you _ , she had signed, eyes glowing in the soft light of her own apartment kitchen.  _ Whenever you get a break, you should come in for the weekend, see the new Hydroponic Bio-Garden in Edinburgh. Mum and I went…  _ her hands had stilled.  _ Sorry. _

He had waved her off but the tone had grown cloudy between them. It was a cardinal rule: don’t bring up Mum. 

Signing he had to get back to work, Scotty had left it hang. He didn’t want to go back, to go… home. So what if it meant he had to surrogate Clara’s presence with Vanessa? It was working pretty well. 

_ Liar. _

“I thought you said the sproket McJigget was going to hold inside the jerry-rigged space magic thing.” 

“Nonsense,” he uttered, crawling back under the console. “A jerry-rigged space magic thing requires two access cables to properly hold a sproket McJigget.” 

“I know you’re making fun of me-”

“And ya deserve it-”

“-but could you please get this thing functioning smoothly? I have an exam tomorrow and I really don’t want to have to use a substitute for a solo stunt flight with Professor Paris.”

“Easy there, lassie. I’ll have this ole’ girl purring like a kitten in no time.” 

“Right, ‘cause you’ve got a date tonight.” She handed him the sonic meter he was blindly reaching for. “So what’s she like?” Vanessa asked. 

“Well ya’ve kept her in decent shape as far as scrubbing out yer-”

“Your  _ date, _ Scotty. What’s your  _ date _ like?” 

He stopped, wincing to himself, feeling lucky his head was engulfed by the mechanics of ship and therefore invisible. Dammit. This was exactly what Mira always complained about. He cleared his throat, ducking around the feeder tube for the anit-matter depositor as he crawled out. “Oh, uh, well she’s… pretty.” 

Vanessa rolled her eyes is such a big arc the irises all but disappeared. “ _ Hombres _ .” 

“No. Hey... well, okay.”

Vanessa didn’t look impressed. “Okay, then what is she like?” 

“Uh, she’s whip smart and a good nurse. She’s going on ta geh her doctorate. She’s, uh…” 

“Yeah. You two sound really in love.” 

Scotty rubbed at the back of his neck, sonic meter hanging uselessly at his side. “I mean, I never said we were.” 

“Just having fun then?” 

“Well…” he sighed. “I mean I like her, but-”

“But?” 

“Wha’?”

“Oh, Scotty, ‘but’ should never follow that phrase. I get the whole having some laughs schtick, but if she’s looking for serious, you cannot follow that phrase up with ‘but’ and expect things to continue.” Vanessa shook her head. “It’s not fair to her.” 

“Aligh’ then, yer so smart, wha’ should I do?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Talk to her. Cut things off. I don’t know; she’s your ‘date.’” 

“It’s no’tha’ simple,” he explained, crawling back under the console. 

Nessa scoffed. “ _ Miedoso _ .” 

“I’m no’afraid!” 

“Says the man literally hiding under a ship.” 

“Och.  _ Hiding  _ is a bit strong. It’s more like...” he sighed, tightening a bolt, fixing the rattling sound the depositor kept making. “Look, I like Mira. But she’s… she’d been through a lot. And honestly, she doesn’t need mah baggage on top’a hers.” He set down the meter and the hydro-spanner, frowning at the solved problem above him. “Maybe I am a wee bit scared, ya know, tha’ she’ll figure tha’ out sooner or la’er.” 

“Yeah well, if she does, it’s not like you’ll be alone or anything.” He felt Vanessa kick his boot. “This ship ain’t gonna fix itself. It needs you.” 

He grinned, sliding out from the console, taking his tools with him. “Thanks.” He dropped the meter into his tool chest, dusted off his hands. “Give her a turn over, yeah?” 

‘Nessa nodded, slipping into the pilot’s chair and initiating the power sequence. Scotty had been right; she purred like a kitten. 

After a celebratory high five, Vanessa helped him pack up his stuff, handing over his PADD last to make sure he didn’t absently stuff it in with the rest of his tools. “You got a message from Archer, by the way,” she stated. “And an update to that stupid Nebraska newsletter.” 

“Oklahoma and ya only don’t like it ‘cause I made ya read it out ta me while I recalibrated your injunction stabilizer coils.” 

“Sounds kinky when you say it like that.” 

He swatted at her good naturedly, taking his PADD and waving goodbye as he started for the hangar doors. The message from Archer was requesting a meeting which wasn’t too odd but worth looking into on his way back to his quarters to get ready for his date. But currently it was taking a back seat to another notification. Clara had tried to call. 

He debated about swiping it away but couldn’t get his guilt to go with it. He tapped a quick response back that he couldn’t talk right then, asking her to call later. 

I’M PROBABLY JUST OVERREACTING BUT MAY NEED HELP , she messaged. 

He frowned, mind tumbling over that statement and eventually reaching the conclusion that something was potentially broken and she needed him to repair it. 

I’LL CALL TONIGHT , he answered. Placating his guilt with a justification that he would get to it  _ later _ , and opened the message from Archer:

HAVE OPPORTUNITY I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU ABOUT. IF ABLE, DROP BY MY OFFICE BEFORE 1700.

Scotty looked at the time in the corner of the screen. He’d make it if he hurried. 

…

Archer’s office was something of a relic. The man himself being well over a century and still kicking maintained a somewhat museum-like quality to his workspace. It was outfitted with the latest tech, sure, but shelves of physical books and a real mahogany desk, comfortable chairs in front of it for guests, and a digital fireplace projector had the place feeling more archaic than any other space at Starfleet. Scotty liked it, in fact. It was certainly a space that fit the man it hosted. 

“Aww, Mr. Scott. Got my message, I see.” 

“I did. And I mus’ admit I’m a wee bit curious wha’ all this is abou’.” 

“Well then I’ll not keep you waiting any longer.” He indicated one of the seats in front of the desk, wheeling over to join Scotty as he sat. “I like what I’m seeing in your project notes. You and Mr. Blanchett are tackling something I think has some real potential.” He tapped a button on his wheelchair and projected up the simulated model Will and Scotty had put together. “An interconnected network of transporter relays.” 

“Right, sir. Be a bit like cell towers from back in the day. The signal would bounce from one to the next almost instantaneously, allowing the user-”

“To go from point A in South Alpha Quadrant to B in the North in mere hours,” Archer finished with a smile. “I read the brief.” 

“Righ’.” 

A soft  _ woof _ from the corner pulled Scotty’s attention to the old beagle resting by the digital fireplace. 

“Sounds like you have some agreement,” Archer joked, snapping his fingers and calling the dog over, putting it in his lap. “Mr. Scott, I’m heading to Panerus IV in the next few days. I was wondering if you would want to come with. They have an existing network of short-distance transporters used for their wheat crops. Thought maybe you could gain some knowledge, set up some experiments, maybe see if this network idea of yours has any validity.” 

Scotty’s brows jumped up. “Aye, sir, absolutely!” 

Archer smiled, petting the old dog on his lap. “Great. I’ll send you the required entry forms, get your paperwork started. Pack light. The accommodations are nice but small.” 

“Naw' a problem, sir. Thank ya! Ya have no idea-”

Archer laughed. “Actually, Mr. Scott, I have some idea. Yours isn’t the first student experiment to get picked up for practical testing. In fact, Mr. Blanchett is joining us, gonna test his theory on Battenburg wireless relay converters.” 

“Oh.” 

Archer tilted his head, curious. “You were hoping to go alone?” 

“Oh no, sir. Just… well, the Bat’enburgs were an idea we came up with, ya know, toge’her.” 

“Oh. I must’ve misunderstood.” He smiled. The dog nudged the man’s hand for more petting. “Well in any case you two can work on them together then.”

“Aye, sir.” 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Archer wheeled back a few inches and Scotty stood, taking the cue to leave, “I have a dinner to attend and this old pooch needs a walk before it.” The Beagle  _ woofed _ at the word walk, clearly gaining excitement. “I’ll see you Tuesday, Mr. Scott.” 

“Aye, sir. Thank ya.” 

Archer nodded and Scotty made his way to the door. Much like the Beagle, his excitement was mounting. A practical experimental space, days of research on a foreign planet, and Will-

Right, Will. Why hadn’t he mentioned the research trip when they talked earlier? Then again, maybe Will hadn’t known Archer planned to bring him along and kept the trip a secret to spare his feelings. But taking all the credit for the Battenburgs was pretty shitty.  _ The initial concept was yours, but he did do all the programming research and application,  _ he rationalized.  _ So really it is Will’s project. _

It still felt a little shady, but the notification from Mira reminding him of the bar’s location pulled him out of his thoughts. He’d deal with Will later, or maybe not at all. If he’d been in his shoes he honestly probably would’ve taken the opportunity without examining project credit too closely too. Still, maybe he’d bring it up, clear the air. For now, though, a lass and glass of scotch awaited him. 

…

While not as common as in his younger days, there was still a certain familiarity to stumbling back to one’s quarters, drunk, and with a beautiful woman in your arms. And while they were far too sloshed to do much in the way of romantic endeavors, there was arguably a more intimate feeling to being inebriated together. All inhibitions were down, vulnerability was high. Answers to questions carefully guarded fell from whiskey-soaked lips. 

Scotty and Mira settled down on his tiny sofa in his cramped living quarters. The bedroom was only a few steps away and yet the yawning expanse was littered with half-broken bits of machinery and project notes. It would be described as chaos by someone unfamiliar with his intricate organizational style. 

Scotty leaned back, arm still wrapped around Mira’s shoulders, hence bringing her laughing along for the ride. She curled in on his chest more comfortably, allowing herself to relax into the feeling of being held while her head still spun. She kicked off her shoes and had a thought to go further with her undressing, but felt too settled in to her current position. 

“Could prob’ly use some wa’er,” he mumbled, hand gently rubbing her back. 

“They make hangover hypos,” Mira dismissed, letting her drooping eyes settle onto the middle distance. Scotty’s PADD was haphazardly setting on the coffee table in amongst two very large manuals and what appeared to be an alien creature of wire. The thin indicator lightbar on the PADD animated its trail of blue, signaling he had some number of notifications. She thought about telling him but the length of his breathing told her he was all but asleep. She watched that light move left to right over and over again, her eyes blinking in time to it. And then its screen blasted to life. 

CALL FROM: CLARA  it projected, flashing. But it was the number in the corner of the projection that had her sobering up. 11. Eleven missed calls from his sister? 

“Scotty, Clara’s calling,” she slurred, tapping at him. His eyes sluggishly opened and it took him a moment to catch on to what was being said, but after some trial and error he managed to reach out and grab his PADD, tapping the screen to return her transmission. 

“Clara, hi-”

But it wasn’t Clara’s face that greeted him. “Please don’t hang up.”

“Mum?” He sat up, Mira getting the feeling this was far more serious than originally thought and moving with him. “Wha’ the bloody hell-”

“I’ve been tryin’ ta call ya all night.” 

“Oh, usin’ Clara’s ID so I wouldn’t tell ya ta fuck off? Clever.” 

“Monty, please.” There was supposed to be venom in it but such harshness bled out quickly as she begged. And that sobered him right up. 

“Wha’s wrong?” 

“Monty,” water rimmed at her holographicly projected eyes, “Clara’s sick.”

“Sick? Wha’? Sick how?” 

“They’re saying it’s some kind of relapse. She’s in hospital.”

“Hospital!” 

“I’ve been trying to call ya all night!”

“I’ve been…” He cleared his throat. “Is she okay?” 

“She’s stable; they’re letting her go home on bed rest. But…they don’t know wha’ caused this, Monty.” 

He sighed deeply. Mira reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. She stood and he lost track of her, mind spinning. 

“She’s asked abou’ ya,” his mum went on. “Wondered where ya were.” 

He frowned, hating the ache in the pit of his stomach that reminded him how much he’d ignored Clara, how he’d brushed her off, how he’d- 

“If she asks again tell her I’m leavin’ first thing in the morning.” 

He hung up before he could hear the reply. 

“You okay?” Mira inquired from the kitchen, ordering up two glasses of water from the replicator. She brought them over handing one to him. 

He took it, swallowing half its contents before answering, “No.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, we've got a sick sister. And thickening plots. Oooo. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Chapter 5. It's a long one. 
> 
> Chapter Warnings - implied child endangerment. Also made up medical lingo

**Chapter Five**

_**2238.04.23** _

“Och, Monty, slow down!” 

“Hurry up, Clara. Yer the one taggin’long.” 

“Aw, let ’er catch up, Goms.” 

Monty stopped walking, sighing deeply and readjusting his bookbag on his shoulder while Fish took in a few heavier breaths, wiping at his thick glasses. Maybe he was going a little too fast. But the weather was great - one of those rare sunny days - and the pond was swollen with winter melt off and spring rains. It was the perfect conditions to test his new rock skipper. 

It was a daft tradition, really. But ever since they were nine, he’d come to the pond on old man Barry’s farm with Fish and they’d compete to see who could skip rocks the furthest, the most times, or with least splash. Over the years the competition had developed to include the aid of mechanical devices. It gave Monty a serious advantage, but it had never been about competition to Fish. He liked being out in the open air and sunshine, holding levers or springs in place while Goms tacked them down or wound them up. 

“We almos’ there?” 

This year, Clara had asked to join them. 

Goms had scrunched up his face, hazel eyes going narrow at the prospect of his little sister invading their ritual. But after a quick shrug from Fish indicating he didn’t mind, Goms had begrudgingly agreed. 

“Almost,” Fish answered her question. He’d offered to take Clara’s bookbag twice, both times with her insisting she didn’t need any help, as stubborn as her brother. She bounced along the old winding roads out to the country, keeping pace with them as best as she could. 

It was good to see her so mobile. In the years Fish had known Clara she’d been chained to her bed by medical tubing and wires more often than not. The new treatment seemed to be doing wonders. Although her hearing had all but gone and her new dilithium-powered hearing aids kept the girl stuck near a charging port more than it should. 

As the pond neared, Monty took off, excitement radiating from him in little staccato vibrations. Clara ran after him, determined to keep up. Fish followed but much slower figuring he’d get there eventually. 

“Righ’ I need mah torque wrench, some 12 mil cable, a seal washer for the hea’ screws, and-”

“Ready!” Clara announced, holding out her own apparatus. 

Monty looked up from his bag to see Clara had pulled out a rigged-up peashooter from hers. “Wha’s tha’?” 

“It’s mah rock skipper.” She stretched it out, gaining incredible draw on the latitude. The base was nothing more than a Y-shaped stick from the yard, but it was the plastic tubing serving as the draw string that caught Monty’s eye. 

“Is tha’ ElastiPlast?” he asked, standing up and reaching for it. 

Clara jerked it away from his grasp. “I had lots lef’over, dohn’t need it anymore now tha’ I’m off the IV meds.” 

“Tha’s naw' fair. We can only use materials tha’ we all have access too. Righ’, Fish?” 

Fish huffed up along beside his friend in time to hear the question and ignore it. “Looks like you finally got some competition, Gommy.” 

Goms rolled his eyes and set about attaching all the odds and ends to his contraption. 

“Wha’s tha’ do?” Clara asked, pointing to one of the springs. 

Monty shooed off her hand, sighing before answering, “Provides the tension needed ta activate the thruster charge.” He indicated the electrical-taped box. “The PCB is in there, along with a dilithium A chamber, and accompanying solar-powered charger.” He tilted the box over to reveal a button. “This is the trigger. Load a rock here,” he pointed to a U-shaped sling at the front of the box, “press the button, the switch closes, the power from the bat’ry is free ta flow, and  _ boom _ rock goes a’flyin’.” He looked up at Fish. “Ya bring anything?” 

Fish shrugged. “Was going to pull Clara’s slingshot for her if she wanted.” 

Clara’s eyes went wide, smile broad and excited. “Yes! Thank ya, Eddie!” 

Monty narrowed his eyes at his friend, scoffing and going back to setting up his own device. He pulled a small drill from his bag and finished attaching the setting spring. 

“Clara, why don’t you start looking for some good skippin’ stones over there,” Fish suggested. Clara nodded and ran over to where he’d pointed, accepting and rejecting rocks as she went. Fish waited for her to be out of earshot before sighing and sitting in the grass next to his friend. “Gommy, as your sworn emotional guardian, I gotta say, you’re being a bit of an arse about her being here.” 

Goms ignored him, setting the drill aside and placing a new head screw. 

“You’re not really going to power that thing to the max, are you?” 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? Gotta see how much pow’r she’s got in her.” 

Fish frowned, holding the head screw in place for Goms while he reached around in his bag for the matching washer. “Look, Gommy, we can come back tomorrow and test it. Why not, you know, let Clara have-”

“I’m naw' let’ing her win!” 

Fish blinked at the outburst. Goms just drilled out the pilot hole for the next screw. 

“Alright. What’s wrong?”

“No idea wha’ yer talkin’ about.” 

Fish put his hand over his friend’s contraption, interrupting his work. “Goms.” 

Monty sighed and set down the drill and screws and washers. “Mum and I had a fight las’ night.” 

Fish nodded. “No surprise there.” He moved a little closer, carefully asking, “What about?”

Goms sighed deeply, eyes looking out into the distance at how the sun shimmered on the pond. Clara was humming to herself over on the shore, still sorting through rocks. “Clara’s back at school now. She’s makin’ good marks. They’re talking all advanced courses next year.” He paused, swallowing hard. Fish let him, no pressure, no pushing. “Mum laid inta me abou’ naw' doin’ mah school work, always tink’ring in the shed, makin’ poor marks, called me lazy like Da’.”

“And this,” Fish indicated the box, “proves her wrong?” 

“I know it sounds stupid.” 

“Not really.” Fish set the head screw into the pilot hole Goms had drilled earlier. “You’ve got every reason to be angry, Gommy. But not at Clara, okay? It’s not her fault.” 

Goms sighed, tightening the screw so Fish could let go. 

“Look, Goms, I get it. I really do. But if the only person you’re proving you’re smart to here is yourself, I gotta ask, is proving you’re smart really more important than being nice?” 

“Wha’ if it is?” 

“Then it is.” Fish took the drill that Goms handed him, holding it until he was ready. “But the question still stands.” 

He reached for the drill and Fish made sure to hand it over bit down so it wouldn’t stab him. “Alrigh’. Yer righ’.” He set the last screw and washer before flicking the switch to start charging the device. “But we’re coming back tomorrow though and let’in’ her go full throttle.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” He nudged his friend’s shoulder and stood. “We’ll go first. Give you some time to sulk.” 

“I’m naw' sulking.” 

“Mmm.” Fish stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Right.” He started for the shore where Clara was sorting the rocks she’d gathered, calling her name and suggesting they get a few practice shots in. 

Monty went back to his contraption, watching the blinking charging light. He moved the miniature solar panel a little more into the direct sunlight, deciding he’d let the charge get to sixty percent: enough to get an idea of its power but under what Fish could likely produce in draw. Clara would win, if only by a little bit. 

A scream caught his attention, had his adrenaline pumping a mile a minute as his eyes found Clara with her hand to her ear. Monty immediately ran over, kneeling down and gently taking her arms in his hands. “Wha’s wrong?” 

“Buzzing,” she explained, eyes screwing shut in annoyance and pain. “It scared me more than hurts, but…” 

“Bet the bat’ry’s goin’ out,” he reasoned. He held out his hand and asked if he could look at them. Clara obliged, grateful to have the buzzing gone but uncomfortable with the new muted and directionless world that greeted her. 

Fish offered his hand for her to take, hoping it’d calm her down. She squeezed it tightly as her eyes followed where Monty wandered off back to his bookbag. He sat on the grass and fished a tool out of his bag, setting to work. 

He frowned, prodding carefully at the casing for the dilithium battery. “Needs a recharge,” he announced as Fish and Clara approached. 

“I don’t wanna go home now,” Clara pouted.

“Ya alrigh’ with the one?” 

She thought about it a moment. Fish could feel her uneasiness at the idea of not hearing clearly. But it seemed unfair for her to have to turn around before she got to participate in their competition. 

He opened his mouth to offer her joining them again tomorrow, but Goms already had a fix ready. “I can charge it up,” he told his sister. 

She smiled, happiness throwing rays. 

Goms picked up his rock skipper and began pulling out wires from the box. He went about jerry-rigging the output from his solar charger to the ports on the tiny battery. It would hold for about ten minutes, enough time for them to get back home and get Clara to a real charger. “It’s gonna take a few ta charge up.” He nodded towards Clara’s peashooter in Fish’s hand. “Why don’t ya go ahead and take yer shots.” 

“Yer gonna write ‘em down, right, Monty?” 

“Aye.” He pulled his holopad from his bag. “Distance, speed, and number of skips. Have a go when ready.” 

Fish pulled back the slingshot, lining up the trajectory of the rock with the center of the lake, took in a breath, and let go on Clara’s command. The rock sailed, skipping four times before sinking below. 

Monty whistled, looking at the readings on his holo. “10.6 meters, 20.9 kph, and four skips.” 

“An’ a half,” Clara argued. 

“Halves don’t count.” 

“Why not?” She put her hands on her hips. 

Monty sighed, rolling his eyes, catching Fish’s pointed brow along the way. “Fine. An’ a half.” He made notes on his holo. “Okay, ya get two more tries.” 

They went about the same, getting up to five skips by the last after Monty had subtly nudged Fish’s arm down a centimeter to level it up more parallel to the pond. 

“Okay, Monty, yer turn.” 

“Right.” He turned to his contraption, undoing the wires hooked up to Clara’s hearing aid - he handed it back to her and she gratefully put it in, happy to have all sound back. Monty set up his turn to go, thumb poised over the button as he loaded in a skipping stone. He tried to ignore the meter on the back reading only a seven percent charge. “Alrigh’ then. Three. Two. One.” He hit the button. His rock fell to the shore, not even making the water. 

He waited for Clara to make a snide comment, to parade around and brag about her win. What he got instead was Fish’s hand on his shoulder and a gentle chuckle from his own lips. “Guess I’ve go’some bugs ta work out.” 

“You’ll geh it workin’, Monty.” Clara flashed him a smile and handed him some of her best rocks. “Here, you can use these.” 

“Should probably head to the workshop, geh started,” he stated. He began cleaning up, joined shortly after by Clara and Fish.

...

Kicking off his pond-muddied shoes at the front step, Fish quietly slipped into his room, careful to avoid his father’s office where the door was shut and sounds of centrifuge and electron microscope whirled. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working. No sound. No needs. Don’t exist. 

Fish curled up on his bed, setting about finishing schoolwork, listening to a nature sounds recording Goms had sent him. It kept him relaxed, focused. 

Halfway through a short answer history question, he received a message from Goms. He tapped the projected graphic and quickly read the holographic text. 

MUM WAS NONE TO PLEASED I VOIDED THE WARRANTY ON CLARA’S AIDS BY HACKING THE BATTERY. FIGURED SINCE THEY WERE ALREADY NULLED, I’D FIX ‘EM UP FER HER. RUN ALMOST TWICE AS LONG AND CHARGE THREE TIMES AS FAST. SO SMART AND NICE. THERE.

Fish grinned and prepared to message back when there was a knock at the front door. He stood up quickly to answer it before it disturbed his father, but was cut off in the corridor by the man swearing under his breath. Fish followed slowly, stopping at the top of the three stairs that led into the kitchen, frozen as the door opened to reveal her. 

He’d seen her in pictures mostly, had the odd memory here and there though most of them were fuzzy at best. It was certainly her, though, same dark brown hair and slight frame covered in Starfleet Blues. She wore thick glasses, same as him, maybe the only hereditary evidence. 

“Elizabeth, the court ruled you have to call first and arrange-”

“Please, Reggie, it’s a very short shore leave. I just want to see him.” 

“Mum?” 

She looked up, following his voice, eyes soft and full of surprise and sorrow. “Eddie.” 

“Elizabeth, you have to schedule-”

“Five minutes, please, Reg. I just want to see him.” 

Reginald didn’t move. “Edward, go to your room and finish your studies.”

“Reggie.” 

“Dad, please.” 

“Go!” 

“Reggie! I just want to see him. Five minutes.”

“Elizabeth, if you wanted to have your son around you shouldn’t have poisoned him with that godforsaken medicine.” 

Fish’s mouth dropped. “What medicine? Mum, what is he talking about?

“It wasn’t my fault!” Her eyes were begging, fear entering her voice. “Eddie,” her lips quivered, “please. It wasn’t my fault. He said it would heal you.” She turned to Reginald. “He said it would make him better.” 

“Leave,” Reginald ordered.” 

“No! Please, just five minutes!” 

“Mum.” 

“Elizabeth, you need to leave. I’ll call the police.” 

“Mum!” 

“No! I need to see him! Let me see him.” 

“Elizabeth-”

“Let me see him!” She shoved him. Reginald was forced several steps back, almost losing his balance, hand catching his weight as he stumbled into the kitchen table. 

The anger in the air burned. Eddie’s heart pounded, feeling the fire from the action going up his veins, the pain in his palms as if he’d done the movement himself. But he was still at the top of the stairs, unmoved. And Mum… 

Tears fell from her eyes, hands shook. “I’m sorry. Oh, Reggie, I’m so, so…” her hands clasped over her mouth as the tears turned to sobs. 

“Get out,” he ordered. 

“Please,” she tried, but her begging would get her nowhere now. 

“Get. Out.” 

She turned towards the stairs for one last look at her son before leaving, eyes red, hands white, and tears filtering salt into the air. He could taste it. He’d never done that before… 

Reginald watched until Elizabeth was clear of the garden then locked the door. He turned to where Eddie was still lingering at the top of the stairs. “Go finish your schoolwork. Dinner will be ready soon.” 

And that was it. Questions cycled through his mind, a million thoughts desperately seeking answers. But there was no room to ask them. His father straightened the kitchen table then went to the replicator to ask for dinner. 

“Edward,” he called, “you’ll not tell anyone what you heard.” 

He swallowed, wanting to scream and punch the wall and- “I understand.” He left, going to his room and feeling like it looked different, like it belonged to someone else. 

A flashing blue light on his holo indicated a new message from Goms.  WHA’ YA GET FOR QUESTION 10 IN HISTORY? 

Fish closed his eyes a moment, letting the sound of recorded water and birdsong replace the red rage still dancing at the edges of his vision. He typed back a response to Goms:  THAT’S AWESOME, GOMS, ABOUT THE HEARING AIDS. HAVEN’T GOTTEN TO 10 YET. 

He could smell the smoky meaty scent of dinner. His fingers paused over his holo, ready to tell Goms. But his father would know - would be able to see any incoming or outgoing transmissions. If he told Goms, it would have to be in person. 

WANT TO DO THE ASSIGNMENT TOGETHER? LIBRARY, 6? 

Goms messaged back:  TECHNICALLY THE WHOLE FIXING MAH SISTER’S HEARING AIDS AND MAKIN’ EM BETTER THING HAS LEFT ME GROUNDED. SORRY. 

Maybe that was for the best. What would Goms be able to do about this anyway? 

His heart was still pounding; his palms still ached. Frowning, Fish answered: DON’T BE. IT’S FINE. 

G: I CAN TRY AN’ SNEAK OUT. 

F: NAH. BETTER NOT BREAK THE THIN ICE WITH YOUR MUM. 

G: I’LL CALL TONIGHT.

F: OKAY 

“Edward! Dinner!” 

Fish shut his eyes, took a few deep breaths. “Coming,” he called back, and started for the door. 

**2258.09.04**

Montgomery Scott went home.

He noticed all the little changes to the buildings and shops and streets, but it was still home. Amazing how running halfway across the galaxy didn’t change the fact that it was still here, still bustling and moving and breathing. The lamps had finished their swap out from LEDx to Linzer crystals, a project Clara’s boyfriend, Paul, some level of governmental employee, had spearheaded. It’d save the city significant energy credits, for sure.  _ Must’ve been an engineering nightmare though, _ he thought, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as he exited the train. It accelerated off behind him and he reveled in the breeze it brought, a true feat of magnetic excellence.

Clara and Paul lived in an apartment downtown, a spacious living area with all the modern amenities. Clara had done very well in her lawyering career, as highlighted by the awards that hung in the corridor by the front door. Scotty looked them over after Paul had let him inside and taken his dripping coat; Britain and its rains would never part. 

“She’s feeling a bit better today. I think she’s excited to see you,” Paul explained, taking a few steps into the kitchen. There was a small stovetop and refrigerator, and a high-quality replicator. The perfect setup for a busy young working couple. Scotty briefly remembered Clara messaging him complaints about Paul attempting to fix the replicator and them subsequently having to eat cold soups for the rest of the week before Scotty walked the man through how to properly fix the thing. That had been years ago now. 

“Bedroom’s to the right. You want some water, tea?” 

Scotty nodded but didn’t stick around to receive the beverage. He pushed open the half-way closed door with a knock. 

Clara was sitting up in bed, PADD in her lap, projecting a video to the left and translating the notes she was signing into a written document on the right. But she closed the whole thing down when she saw him, smile going wide and bright and he tried to feel like he deserved it. 

“<Good to see you,>” she signed. 

He sat down on the end of the bed. “<Feeling better?>” 

She nodded. “<Good trip?>” 

“<As much…>” he paused trying to remember the words, hands rusty. “Well as much as it can be,” he spoke, hoping her translator was still running. A projection of hands emerged from her PADD, shaping his words. She hit a button on the screen to shut it off and touched a finger to the back of her ear. “Been a wee bit since since ya signed in person, huh?”

“Gotta say, I love tha’ thing,” he pointed to the PADD. “Damn good program.” 

“Almost as good as the person who installed the sub-program to turn it on whenever words are detected but my aids are off.” 

He waved the compliment off. It had been a simple afternoon sit-down project he’d completed after graduation from the Academy. He’d sent her the file and helped her install it yet that night.  _ Very useful _ , she’d said of it not two days later. He’d meant to respond but had been busy tuning up some ASKI drivers per Commander Miner’s instruction. 

“Clara,” he started after a moment, looking down at his hands, “I’m sorry I didn’t-”

“It’s a’right.” 

“No it’s naw'. I was ignorin’ ya.” 

“Because I mentioned Mum.”

“No! Naw' tha’. Is tha’ wha’ ya thought?” 

She shrugged. “Ya quit talkin’ after-” 

“It’s naw'.” He sighed, hating how he’d somehow made her think it was her fault. 

“Then why?” 

He looked up at her, mouth chewing on words that didn’t make sense. He was ignoring her because she wanted him to come home and home meant returning to things long gone: a past world occupied by a past him. There were too many memories here for it to be welcoming. 

But  _ Clara _ was at “home” and that meant to see her he had to go home and maybe there was some fear that the past him would be there to greet him, waiting with eager arms to invite him back into old ways, habits long kicked, anger long quelled by the soothing rocking of a starship and busy hands and occupied mind and problems he could fix.

Maybe the problem was “home” was riddled with things he couldn’t mend. 

“Tell me abou’ yer case,” he asked instead. “Tough one?”

Clara frowned at the abrupt subject change but answered, “Tough, no. More interes’ing.”

“How’s tha’?”

“Patent fraud. One party is trying to sue another for using tech tha’ doesn’t yet exist. Well,  _ legally  _ exist, I should say. Pret’y futuristic stuff tha’.” 

“Dinnae suppose ya can spare an old engineer a look?” he asked excited. 

Clara shook her head. “Classified, I’m afraid. And nothing compared ta yer work, I’m sure.” 

He tried to wave her off but she insisted he tell her everything he’d been working on. He indulged, falling into the old pattern of explaining complicated systems and processes, going far too deeply into details, tossing around jargon and lofty concepts. But Clara truly didn’t mind. This was her brother at his best: seeing the world as a series of mechanical problems and their subsequent solutions. This was Monty in his purest form and that was a rare thing to see most days. Which was why she hated how heavy her eyes felt, how her limbs weighed a million stone.

“Yer noddin’ off.”

“Yer naw' boring me,” she assured. 

Monty grinned and took her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze. “Ge’ some rest, yeah. Ya look like ya could use it.” 

She moved to nod her head in agreement but wasn’t sure if the motion ever completed, heavy darkness filling her vision, her mind. 

Scotty backed away slowly, inching for the door, and silently shutting it behind him as he left Clara’s room, snapping off the lights and leaving her sleeping form illuminated blue by the biomonitor set up beside her bed. 

He turned around expecting to see Paul sitting at the kitchen table, maybe with the promised glass of water.

Instead there was Mum. 

“Clara’s asleep I take it,” she stated, voice tight with effort. “Paul popped out to the office to get some files.” 

A sentence common enough, but it’s true meaning was hanging uncomfortably in the air: they were alone. 

“I was going to make tea.” 

This was a request disguised. Mum was making tea, therefore he was required to stay and drink it. She wanted to talk then. Scotty had a sinking feeling he knew what about even as his reluctant legs bent to follow the shape of the kitchen table chair across from her. No sooner had he sat that she was up at the replicator ordering two cups. She handed one to him, the cup and matching saucer a pre-programmed pattern that undoubtedly came from Clara’s preference, modern and minimalist in its design. 

Scotty took a sip and scrunched his face up at the taste. “Is there sugar in this?” 

Mum set down her cup, clinking against the saucer. “Is tha’ naw' right?” Her face remained smoothed, no lines of frustration. “‘Spose I dinnea how ya take it these days.” 

Scotty frowned. “Guess I goh used’ta it black while workin’ on the Gallie-cruisers. Naw' reliable replica’ors those.” He took another sip, grimaced. 

“Ya can make a new cup,” Mum offered. 

“It’s fine.” 

“Ya donnae have ta drink it, Monty.” 

“Mum, it’s-”

“Make a new cup.” 

“It’s. Fine.” 

Rain hit the window with increasing force; gale winds blowing up and pushing on the glass.  _ How much exactly did the SiO _ _ 2 _ _ compound of glass absorb from each drop?  _

“Paul seems nice,” he commented, filling in the silence that oppressed the room, hanging there like shadows creeping on the ceiling at the sun set. 

Mum put down her cup, more quietly this time, more control in her movement. “Bit fligh’y if ya ask me.”

“Tha’ you talkin’ or the divorce?” It was out of his mouth before he had time to stop it. 

Mum’s eyes narrowed, jaw set. She wet her lips in the particularly sharp way that he’d seen a thousand times growing up: every confiscated battery, every small fire, every late night project that overruled schoolwork. The restrained  _ disappointment _ that look held echoed back thirty years of constant disapproval of his actions. 

“Can we naw' do this, Monty?” 

God, what he would give to say no. What he would give to have it out, yell, scream, accuse her of all the sins he knew her guilty of, especially the one he could never forgive her for. But Clara didn’t deserve that. This was her house and he’d back away from this fight only because he couldn’t bear to hurt her more than he had. 

“Fine.” He sipped some more overly sugary tea. “But ya do wan’ta talk abou’ something. Ya wouldn’t have made a cuppa otherwise.” 

“Cannae just wan’ta talk ta mah estranged son?” 

“Were ya any other mother, I’d believe tha’.” 

It was a low blow and he knew it. But if she wasn’t going to pull her punches, neither would he. 

“I’m no’ tryin’ ta pick a fight, Monty.” 

“Then wha’!” 

“I’m  _ scared _ !” 

He stared, shocked. For her to admit… 

“Monty, I’m terrified. Clara’s diagnosis, this,” she pointed to the bedroom, “I alrea’y raised my daugh’er like this. And she grew up and moved on, made a life for herself. An’ now she’s been knocked back to when she was six, but I’m naw' as young as I was and I donnae know if I can han’le this again.” She moved her hand closer to his on the table. “Monty, I need ya here ta help.” 

He stared at her hand and resisted the urge to pull his away. “Mum,” he started, not quite meeting her eyes, “ya know I’ll help out anyway I can. But…” he sighed. “I have a life too.  _ I _ grew up and moved on and made one for mahself  _ too _ .” 

“I see.” Her features were flinty, her hand jerked away. 

“Mum-”

“Ya always did hide behind yer work.” 

“Now, wai’a bloody minute here. This isn’t some repair shop anymore, Mum. I work for  _ Starfleet _ . I’m in a program righ’ now with Admiral Archer,  _ the  _ Admiral Archer, workin’ ta change the future of space travel. I’m goin’ to Panerus IV in three days to experiment on mah work; work tha’ Archer himself thinks is viable. So if ya need help, ask Paul, ask any one of Clara’s many friends; I’m sure they’d love ta help her. And I’ll do wha’ever I can, and I mean tha’. But naw' wha’ yer askin’. Naw'… naw' giving up wha’ I’ve worked for.”

Mum stood up, gathering tea cups, his still mostly full. “Hones’ly, Monty, yer gonna be this selfish?” 

“Selfish?”

“Le’me ask this, if Clara were askin’ instead of me, would ya say yes?” 

“In a heartbeat. But only ‘cause I know she’d never ask.” 

“Yet ya donnea even answer her calls.” She put the cups in the replicator, hit the Finished setting. They disappeared. 

“I was busy. Honest.” 

“Aye, I saw. Pret’y. American I’m guessin’.” 

“Och, don’t drag Mira inta this. She doesn't deserve yer wrath.” 

“Is tha’ wha’ ya think this is? Some sorta retribu’ion?” 

“Well tha’ has always been yer M.O., righ’? Failing marks at school? Take away mah workshop. Actin’ out? Take away mah social life, lit’le as it was. An’ now yer tryin’ ta take away mah work. Well shite luck. ‘Cause ya alrea’y took away the only thing I ever gave a real damn abou’.” 

“Ya still blame me fer tha’?” 

“It was yer fault!” Monty’s chair clattered to the floor as he stood. 

A high pitch beep and following  _ whoosh _ at the front door signaled Paul’s return. He took the steps needed to enter the kitchen, umbrella dripping water onto the floor. His eyes flitted between the two around the table. “Am I interrupting?” His soft London accent bled an underlying warning: Clara can hear you. 

“No,” Monty grunted, gaze dropping to the floor. 

“Good.” He hung up the umbrella and his overcoat on the coat rack, placing his satchel of work documents on a hook drilled into the corridor wall. “Monty, I was wondering if you could take a look at the solar heater for the hot water? Can’t seem to get it past 30 degrees these days.” 

“Aye, Paul.” He didn’t spare his mother a glance as he followed Paul towards the utility cupboard. He’d almost cleared the kitchen when she tossed, “I turned back, ya know.” 

He paused. 

“Tha’ night,” she added. Her voice was quiet, soft in a way he’d never heard. “Ya were already gone.” 

There were words on his tongue. Nasty, vicious words that tasted of citrus: sour yet so refreshing. He wanted so badly to bite them back at her. To hit her right where it  _ hurt _ . But from the perspective of the other side of the kitchen he saw her without that cloying disappointment in her eyes. And he saw the curve in her shoulders and weight in her back, the tired neck and achy legs. She was exhausted. 

And maybe it was the resignation, maybe it was finally towering over her, having an upper hand. Maybe it was the softness to her voice that was still resonating in his ears. But he swallowed those angry, bitter words and followed Paul away from the kitchen.

Away from her. 

**2258.09.07**

It can be easy to forget just how blue the sky can be when one floats around in the deep, dark black of outer space. It’s strange to think that the endless blue from the ground is the same as the endless black from the air, the only difference being vapor and other particles in the atmosphere. But with the vast expanse of rippling, waving wheat bowing to the wind and hissing to the rains, stretching for miles and miles, wrapping the bottom half of the horizon in gold, and the yawning blue fading from inky midnight to the softest of pastels at the meeting point of that gold, Scotty had to say Panerus IV was breathtaking. 

“Not a sight you see every day, huh?” Archer commented. His wispy gray hair fluffed around in the strong winds. It would be comical on any other old man, but the admiral still managed to look dignified. 

“It’s gorgeous,” Scotty answered. 

Will nodded but didn’t look up from his PADD, damn techie. “30 degree heat plus extra humidity in the air from all the crops. Yeah, real nice.” 

“Och, com’on, ya wee grumpy bastard.” Scotty slung an arm around his friend’s shoulders. “This is fun.” 

Will sighed, but looked up from his PADD, eyes scanning the vast horizon as they walked north to their camp. “Yeah, okay. It’s pretty, I guess.” 

“He guesses,” Scotty scoffed. 

“Close enough,” Archer encouraged with a small smile. His hoverchair glided along the dusty path easily, an engineering feat that Scotty had to resist the urge to examine. He imagined the micro electromagnets were calibrated to read the terrain and adjust accordingly. He’d have to look it up later. 

“We’re almost there,” Archer offered at the silence that followed, “It’s just over this hill. The “it” was referring to the Starfleet outpost just south of a native settlement, Camp Wilkinson. Although camp, it turned out was a misnomer. 

“Wow,” Will breathed, PADD long forgotten. Scotty couldn’t have agreed more. 

The main structure of the outpost formed six large arches that rose from and fell back to the ground like an ancient serpent. Each of the arches sat at a forty-five degree angle allowing the resulting slope to sustain enormous panes of glass that faced the ever-stretching landscape. Walkways connected the arches at their apexes, covered in grasses and small trees. Smaller arches gracefully waved in front of the larger structures and had smaller windows and little decks that stuck out on top. Living quarters, Scotty guessed. 

“Want to see your lab?” Archer inquired, already hovering towards the path that led to the third large arch, barely waiting for them to pick their jaws off the ground. 

The interior of the structure was just as grand. Long hallways and large atriums connected smaller offices and labs. The place wasn’t overly busy, but it had several groups of people milling about, going about their day, attending to their studies. Not all of them were Starfleet. Groups from trade companies and agricultural firms shared their spaces. 

“Here we are. Lab 314.” Archer keyed in a passcode and opened the door to a nicely furnished lab, fully stocked, and had the bottom corner angle of the arch window to provide natural lighting and an exterior annex that would allow them to study the planet’s relay system. 

“This is incredible,” Scotty observed, eyes scanning the available equipment over on the left counter. The right had a whole wall of holographic boards to make notes. 

“And all at your disposal,” Archer added. “Just make sure to fill out equipment usage forms before utilizing it.” He hovered around to the large front window. “You’ll have plenty of time to get set up and start testing tomorrow, for now, let’s drop your stuff off at your quarters and have some lunch. The caf’ here has amazing sandwiches.” 

They filed out with Archer in the lead to take them to their quarters. The cabin had two bedrooms and a shared living space and bathroom. Will took the one to the left, dropped off his stuff, and immediately began setting up his PADD and several other pieces of tech equipment. 

Scotty set down his duffle and took a moment to just absorb the room. It was about the size of his at the Academy, with a large window facing east and sleek desk and shelves built into the wall for clothes and books. The walls were painted a neutral tan with off-white accents - nothing to offend or detract from the scenic beauty, he supposed. 

He began putting away some clothes when Archer tapped on his door frame. 

“I wanted to ask how your sister is doing? Could hardly believe it when you told me. Goki-N’mels’s disease is such a manageable condition these days.” 

Scotty nodded heavily. “She’s… stable.” A sigh. “Best they can figure is she developed an allergy to her me’ication. They have her on  _ vicerpripanol,  _ which-”

“Which they haven’t used to treat Goki-N’mels’s for what? Twenty years?” Archer rubbed at his chin. “Wow.” 

“Aye.” Scotty stretched his fingers, eyes steady on them. One of his nails had a white mark from where he’d pinched it working on Vanessa’s cruiser a few weeks ago. “Anyway, she’s bedrid’en. Gonna need help, so… I’m gonna try and split mah time.” 

Archer sighed deeply, frown etched into his wrinkled face. “That’s hard news, Mr. Scott. I’m sorry to hear she’s not well.” He picked some lint off his sleeve, hands shaking ever so slightly with age. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad you decided to come along anyway.” 

“Sir?” 

“This idea has great potential, Mr. Scott. And depending on how your studies here work out, I could see about setting you up with a long-term research assistant position at the academy.” 

“Really, sir? I mean… I’m honored, but… me?” 

“Why not you? This work, could change… everything, including your future at Starfleet.” 

Scotty stared at him, mouth dropping open just a tinge. 

“I know you had a bit of a rocky career during your academy days, but your work as my student aide speaks for itself. And if this pans out, if  _ your _ idea succeeds, you could become a household name in science, engineering, physics. If you can take this,” he indicated the relay stations out on the fields beyond the windows, “and translate it into inter-quadrant beaming, there’s no limit.” His gaze pulled back to be directed on Scotty. “Change comes to those willing to take risks, Mr. Scott. So if there’s anything I can do to help allow you to take those risks, let me know.” 

“I… thank you, sir.” 

Archer nodded once, a sense of finality in the action. “Good. Now, let’s get something to eat. I’m hungry.” He wheeled away, calling out for Will. 

But Scotty stayed frozen a moment, coming to grips with the opportunity at his fingertips. Archer was right; this could change everything. No more feeling alienated and cast aside for his “crazy” ideas. No more having to defend his fixes and modifications to sub-par engineering heads. No more being told to do things by the book; hell, he’d be writing the book. 

This could change  _ everything _ . 

All it had to do was succeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so WTF is up with Fish? Right?   
> And what happened between Scotty and his mum to cause such a rift?   
> And will his experiment work? (You can probably guess that last one. Here's a hint: woof.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And look at that, we're already at Chapter 6. Buckle up people. It's a big one. 
> 
> Chapter warnings - (it's a bit of a list) Violence/semi-graphic violence, emotional trauma, threat of bodily harm, drinking, so much medical lingo and technical jargon

**Chapter Six**

**_2238.10.13_ **

Goms set his bag down and sat unceremoniously at the school library study table. Fish did the same on the opposite side of the table, happily listening to Goms prattle on about some kind of blatant flaw in the school’s mainframe firewall and how a simple rewire of the cortex this or that would make the whole thing controllable from a holopad fifty kilometers away.

As Goms went on, Fish pulled out his holo for History and slid it over to Goms before reaching for the yammering man’s bag and helping himself to Gom’s maths holo, powering it on and immediately copying the answers. 

“Speech?” he asked once Goms paused. 

“Outlined.” 

“You mean it’s a bunch of ‘Montese’ you need me to make into real words.” 

Goms simply smiled back and slid over the corresponding holo, adding his Chemistry one after he cued it up to where he’d left off in the assignment. Only two questions to go and Fish would have all the answers he’d need. 

“Oh, and, guess who scored a leaked trial of _MACO III, Romulan Wars_. This talented hacker!” Goms dropped a microchip onto the surface of Fish’s History holopad and instantly the surface displayed the new game. Pret’y nice, huh? I hear there’s a level where ya can pinch a Klingon Warbird.” 

Fish pushed up his glasses and examined the game. “Where’d ya find this?” 

“A bloke at Havisham’s was talkin’ about it. Go ahea’ and play for a bit. I’ve gotta finish your Chem work.” 

Delighted, Fish tucked into the game, maneuvering the troops to flank the Romulan unit they had pinned down. Much simulated violence later and Fish was overjoyed - gaming being his favorite outlet for rage. 

“Want anything to eat?” he asked Goms who appeared to be attempting to change Fish’s provided history answers just enough to not get accused of cheating. 

Goms handed him his student card. “Only if they have ‘Netto.” 

“Flavor?” 

“Dealer’s choice.” 

“Only to ‘ave you tell me I picked wrong? Ain’t ‘appening. You’re coming with me.” 

“Fine.” He snatched up the game’s microchip. “But I’m taking this.” He plugged it into his own holo and began to play, abandoning their studies. 

They made their way to the vending area by the gymnasium, replicator flashing advertisements for various nibbles. 

“You’re in luck,” Fish began, sliding his student card into the replicator. “They have strawberry, original, and mint chip.” 

“Naw' mint. They fucked up tha’ recipe five years ago.” 

“I keep telling you, they didn’t change anything. Tastes the same.” 

Goms scoffed, eyes not leaving the game. “Yer mad. Mint changed from a pleasant background flavor to the chocolate to an overpowering dental examine. I dinnea need to feel like I’m get’in’ lectured on flossin’ habits while enjoying a-”

“Strawberry it is, you whiner.” Fish dropped the snack into Goms’ pocket, allowing his friend to not break concentration on the game. “You got a sniper in the upper-left corner.” 

“Cheers, mate.” 

They began their way back, Fish offering advice on tactical options, Goms utilizing a glitch he’d found in the reloading animation to trick it into giving him unlimited power-cell bursts.

“Cheater,” Fish protested. 

“Workin’ wha’ I got, Fishy.” A rogue fighter broke enemy ranks and charged at his simulated character. “Bugger, ge’off! Go. Run ya duffer. Och.” 

“Get yourself killed there, Goms?” 

But he didn’t get a chance to answer. 

“Oi, Fisher.” 

Goms and Fish turned around towards the voice of Rob Mitchell. “Wha’ ya got there?” 

Goms moved to tuck the game away but Rob was quick, yanking the holopad from his hands. 

“Give it back, Rob,” Fish demaded, voice hardening to a tone Goms knew and hated. 

“It’s okay, Fish. I can geh another-”

“Give. It. Back.” 

Rob laughed. “Or wha? Yer gonna beat me up for it? We both know ya can’t.” 

“Fish, leave it. Let’s go.” 

“I said give it back, Rob.” Eddie’s fists began tightening. He could feel his nails digging into his palms. 

“Fish.” 

“Yeah, Fish,” Rob mocked, “yer mate’s right. Ya should be a good dog and leave it.” 

Eddie’s thick-lensed glasses did little to hide his narrowing eyes. “What did you say to me?” 

“Fish,” Goms hissed. 

Rob took a step forward. “Called ya a dog. A dog following his master’s orders. Ya know why?” Another step to fully invade Eddie’s space. “Because yer too stupid to think for yerself.” 

“Fish, don-”

But there was no use. The fists were already flying. 

Rob got in a good swing to Eddie’s cheek, but it wasn’t long before the bigger man had the advantage with Eddie pinning Rob to the ground, fists brutally punching the flesh from Rob’s skull. Red rage now matched red blood. Eddie’s knuckles held the familiar ache from splitting open. The crack of bone as he pummeled Rob’s face into the ground repeated with each fracture. There was screaming from a distant space behind him; words the red rage blocked out. That was until the voice was above him and hands were viciously yanking on his clothes. 

“Fish! Stop! Fish Stop it! Please, Fish! Stop!” 

_Goms?_

The hands were irritating and keeping him from properly squaring his fist with Rob’s stupid jaw. The need to get rid of those hands trumped the red rage for a moment, and with a growl Eddie twisted and aimed a punch at the source of the hands. 

The crack of bone. 

More red. 

But something was wrong. 

A hissing cry, something so painful and shocked and-

“Goms?” But how the hell had Monty ended up on his ass, blood streaming from his nose? _Who did this?_

The look in Goms’ eyes was what snapped him from the red rage. Monty wasn’t supposed to be hurt like that, bleed like that. Fish moved towards him, Rob’s pulped face forgotten in the process. 

“Goms?” he tried again. 

Monty shook his head, wincing at the pain it caused. 

“Goms, I-”

“Leave it, Fish!” Blood seeped from between Goms’ fingers as he tried to stem the bleeding. An icy note of fear coming off him.

“I-”

“There, officer,” the voice of office administrator Clarice Needlemeier slipped into Fish’s peripheral. “The big one. He assaulted that boy.”

And suddenly there were handcuffs and Goms was still bleeding and trying to say something to Needlemeier and the officer. Sirens from a squad car sang in harmony to the ambulance. _Was Goms hurt that badly?_

Bars. Ink on the tips of his bloody fingers. Knuckles bandaged after a sterile alcohol wipe. Just clips of a movie he wasn’t fully watching, a game not fully played, like he was glancing over Goms’ shoulder while he finished their history homework. 

He knew the moment the adrenaline wore off; he always knew. His eyes felt heavy, his body seemed to increase in weight tenfold. Red replaced with white replaced with black. 

And then his father showed up. 

…

“Thought I’d find you ‘ere,” Fish mumbled, hands in pockets to hide the thick bandages. Goms sat a small distance away down the slope of the hill behind the castle ruins, eyes scanning the expanse of field. Everything was brown and gray, winter colors without the unifying, lightening, white of snowfall. 

Goms didn’t say a word, instead electing to tuck his knees towards his chest, wrapping his arms around them and letting his head rest on his forearms. His jacket sleeves covered the fresh bruise that sat between his eyes, stretching the skin of them and throbbing dully at currently being face down. It was odd, Fish realized, to think about how he’d never see that gray jacket again, a staple of Goms’ identity same as his ginger hair and left-hand scar from an infratool incident three years ago. 

Fish stepped forward but didn't sit next to Goms. He didn’t deserve that space anymore. 

“How bad?” Goms finally asked, head still oriented towards the ground. 

“They’re sending me to a disciplinary school in Manchester.”

Goms didn’t look up. “And if Rob _had_ died?” 

“The the world would’ve been a better place, in my opinion.” 

“Fish.” So much of the fight was gone from Goms’ voice. The last week had been a nightmare. And it was his fault; he knew that. 

“Gommy, I’m… I’m sorry. I…” 

With a labored sigh, Goms raised his head, eyes shiny and sunken deep into the angry red-violet of his spreading bruise. “Ya knew. Ya knew this would happen if ya go’into another fight. Ya had yer warnings, Fish. They gave ya more than one chance to not-”

“What was I supposed to do? 

“Ya were supposed ta leave it alone!” Tears began lining bruised eyes. “Leave it alone, Fish. Ya knew tha’ school was on the table. Ya knew that one more fight and ya would be sent away and ya fuckin’ laid into ‘im anyway!” 

“Goms-”

“Tha’ officer asked me if I wanted ta press charges, Fish. And not towards Rob, mind.” A wet scoff. “I had ta sit there in a fuckin’ paper gown while a nurse asked me questions about if I was ‘safe at school’ an’ ‘if ya’d ever hit me before,’ if this was truly an accident.” 

“It _was_ an accident!” 

“Was it?” 

Mouth agape Fish took a step back. Did Monty actually believe he’d hurt him like that. It had been an accident. Truely. He’d lost sense of space and Goms had stepped in towards the fight. 

“Sorry,” Goms murmured, head dropping again. “I…I dinnae mean tha.’” He sighed deeply, eyes lifting just enough to see gray sky meet the horizon formed by his jacketed arms. “What now, Fish?” 

It was barely more than a whisper and it had Eddie’s gut in knots. He’d come to find Goms expecting anger, expecting frustration and the pain of betrayal that came with someone you care about hurting you. But this, this resignation, this achingly quiet acceptance was killing him. Anger he knew what to do with. Loud, violent anger was the earliest thing he’d learn to identify. But this? This complex chord of apathy, sufferance, and numbness... 

Soft, complicated emotions always felt like sickness, rolling off of people in nauseous waves. 

“I dunno,” he admitted quietly. He decided to risk taking a seat in the dead grass. Goms didn’t seem to protest. “That school’s not too keen on outside contact; says it interferes with their program.” 

“So wha’? Jus’ like tha’ yer gone?” 

“Goms.” 

“Why, Fish? Why couldn’t ya just stay out of it?” Tears fell, bitter sadness coloring that complex chord with a dissonant note. “Why couldn’t ya…” Goms rubbed at his eyes, wincing as his hand hit bruise. 

Fish had only one answer, an answer he himself hated, largely for it being the truth. “Cause I have a problem, Goms.” He picked at some of the dead grass below his palm, thick fingers tearing up something that gave little fight back. He stopped, brushing dirt from his hands on his pants leg. “Something’s broken and it needs to be fixed.” 

Monty frowned but moved closer, letting his head fall on Fish’s shoulder. “They won’t let ya have visitors, will they?”

Fish shook his head, adjusting to let Goms rest more comfortably. “You’ll just ‘ave to use that big brain of yours to find a way to sneak in.” He grinned. “‘Ell. knowing you, I’ll find one day you’ve beamed directly into my room.” 

Goms sniffed, a small laugh working its way into the action. “I’ll have ta be in the area first. Hundred mile limit and everything.” 

“Who made that up?” 

“Physics.” 

“Eh,” Fish put his arm around Gom’s shoulders letting his bandaged head rest there, “fuck ‘em.” 

**2258.09.19**

There was a temporal displacement theory by physicist Dr. Maria Talbert, that stated one cannot bounce from time and place to time and place without losing energy in the exchange. She went on to theorize that if one transported rapidly enough and often enough, they could lose enough energy that they’d collapse and die from exhaustion. Her numbers were never proven, but Scotty had found himself thinking about her hypothesis almost daily as every morning he’d open his eyes in either the Panerus camp or Clara’s spare room, robotically proceed onto duties, and far too often fall asleep in the room opposite to where he’d awoken. 

His body was showing desperate signs of exhaustion: the heavy eyes, confusion, loose limbs, slurred speech. And yet he’d have another cup of tea, catch a 20 minute break, have Will cover for his tardiness from oversleeping his alarm, and overall just make it work for that one more day which became one more day which became one more day. 

Clara’s condition was holding, getting no better, no worse. 

Mum hadn’t spoken to him since that first day, electing they help Clara out in shifts, splitting up recurring duties. The weekly run to the shop was her thing. The trip to the doctor was his. Paul made her breakfast before going off to work. Mum made lunch. Scotty made dinner. But most of it was really keeping Clara from losing her mind from boredom. Scotty knew that feeling all too well. 

_Granny used to say boredom was a swear word,_ he’d reminded her one evening. Clara had grinned and asked for more about their gran. She’d been too young to much remember her before she passed. So Scotty had told her as many stories as he could recall of her quiet brilliance and bullheadedness and soft wisdom. He missed her, he’d realized. Clara had started to yawn, the medication dragging her further into sleepiness. _She sounds a lot like you,_ she’d commented, drifting off. Scotty had pulled the blankets up around her more, ensuring her Paul would be home soon. He’d turned off the lights and shoved her comment into the resulting shadows. He was far inferior to their grandmother. 

He talked to Mira as regularly as he could manage, but lately it had been more of a lecture about getting rest and taking it easy. She was doctoring him and he hated it, hated that she was right and there was nothing he could do about it. He hated that he started ignoring her calls. 

Vanessa asked him when he was coming back to the academy, stating her shuttle missed him. It made him smile for a moment before messaging her back that he missed her shuttle too, missed her too. She promised to visit sometime and bring a batch of _El Rey_ chocolates. He didn’t even remember telling her he liked them. Must’ve been something rambled out late one night fixing her shuttle. She had a good memory like that. 

And then there was their research. Each day started the same, opening up the lab and recording results from any tests left to run overnight. He’d work on tuning the equipment, piecing together the formula, while Will programmed and reprogrammed their set of relays for the next test.

It was a great system here on Panerus. Crops were grown in large fields, harvested by short-range drones, and loaded onto carts that were automatically beamed to the next station on the line, working their way up to a collection station, ergo reducing the number pick up stations required to gather harvest, meaning one company could grow and harvest upwards of 15,000 acres in a season, 

All he and Will had to do was magnify that principle to apply to the great distances of outer space. 

But their research wasn’t progressing well. The concept was sound and even worked in practice. The problem was while transporting stacks of wheat in carts 100 plus kilometers to the next relay and so forth was perfectly possible, scaling the idea up and for complex, sentient biological matter meant so many more variables to account for, to balance. And circling back to Dr. Talbert, Scotty couldn’t help but feel her principle of losing energy from every transfer had some merit. Or maybe wheat just gets limp quicker in the sun here… 

His hand lingered over his PADD, notes starting to run together and form incomprehensible hieroglyphics. His blinking was getting heavy. The sunset was casting golden shadows off of his lab table. 

“You okay?” Will asked from the other side of the lab. “Scotty?” he repeated when he got no answer. 

Scotty shook his head, coming too. “Sorry. I’m-”

“If you answer with ‘fine’ I’m going to slap you.” Will set down his PADD and came over. “You’re clearly not.” 

“I jus’ need ta balance this…” he trailed off, the name of the function before him escaping his mind.

“Yeah, okay, time for a break.” 

“Will.”

“Scotty, this planet is a big ball of wheat meaning they make some of the best beer in the quadrant. Now we’re going to go get some, we’re going to get _just_ drunk enough to not care, and then you’re going to sleep for three days or until Archer pops in for a surprise check up. Okay?”

Honestly, it wasn’t a bad plan. He _did_ need a break and the beer here was excellent. Plus the idea of getting drunk for the evening and not doing shit else was the greatest plan he’d heard in a long time. “Alrigh,’ Will. Lead the way.” 

They found a small bar within the limits of the nearby settlement, a popular place with the locals. They received a few curious glances upon entering, but after setting up to the bar they became just another pair of patrons. 

The local tap was rich and foamy and went down smooth. Scotty was two pints in before Will finished his first. 

“You’re laggin,’ lad,” he goaded, ordering his third. 

God it felt good to _drink,_ to take down glass after glass of mind numbing elixir. Let loose. Float for a moment without the gravity of demands and obligations. 

A voice in the back of his mind told him to slow down, balance out with water. It sounded an awful lot like Mira. He ignored it.

“God, I needed this,” he slurred, wiping foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. Was this pint three or four? 

“Thought you might,” Will offered. “It’s been some stressful few weeks in here for you.” 

“I’ll drink ta tha’.” He gulped a bit more down, debated about getting another as he watched tendrils of foam swirl in the glass. It looked like a galaxy. A beautiful amber galaxy that he’d need some unknown amount of relays to travel to. And that’d be if there was anything left of him on the other end. God, he needed another drink. _They have scotch here?_

“It’s naw' gonna work is it?” 

“What isn’t?” Will asked. He finished his first beer and moved on to his second. 

Scotty motioned a hand vaguely outside. “This. Our ‘brilliant’ idea. Scalin’ it up.” Another drink. “It’s rubbish.” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Will,” he spun to look at the man but the world kept spinning even after he stopped. “The only thing on the other end is death. If ya go through long enough, and fast enough - _blip_ \- yer gone.” 

Will remained silent, eyeing his friend curiously. “Well, okay then, how do we fix it?” 

“Fix it? _Pfft_ . Ya cannae fix it. It’s naw' broken; it never worked.” That was the truth. It was a failed theory. His theory… failed. So goodbye research assistant position, any fame, any credit to erase the countless other times he’d cocked up. _Fuck it_. He ordered another. Downed the first third of it numbly. This one’s foam galaxy looked less inviting. 

“What are you thinking, Scotty?” 

It was Will’s voice but it sounded lightyears away. 

_I’m thinkin’ I’m a bloody failure. Again._

God, what he would give to jump into that foamy universe and just get away from here. To transport through space and time, warp it around him…

 _Warp_? 

“Will, do ya think… ya think ya could warp, like beaming. Like, instead of relays just skip ‘em ta go the fastest thing we already have, aye?” 

“What?” 

Scotty scrambled for some beer mats. “Righ’, this one is point A,” the Romulan Ale denoted it’s assignment, “and this is point B,” a Budweiser Classic, “and this,” a bowl of mixed nuts he held above the beer mats, “is a starship, warp 4, say. Now, if one could go, A,” he pointed to the Ale mat, “ta here,” shook the bowl, nuts rattling inside, “yer halfway home and still movin’. Ya can slip into warp stream, meanin’ any energy loss is nulled in the vortex.” 

“So what? You want to try and beam… while in warp?” 

“ _Into_ warp. _Trans_ warp if ya will. Could go both ways.” He set the bowl down but moved his hand to the second beer mat. “It’d solve… well loads.” His gaze lingered on the imaginary set up he’d postulated. _Could this work?_

Will laughed loudly beside him. 

“Wha’?” 

“Just… you’re like, _drunk_ , aren’t you?” Will asked, still laughing. “I mean, bold move and all, Scotty, but damn? You hear yourself? The math alone, shit, I mean, c’mon. You’d be breaking physics.” 

Scotty picked at the bowl of nuts. “So ya don’t think it’d work?” 

Will shook his head, smile wide. “Scotty, beaming to a ship in warp would be like,” he looked around for a moment, picking up one of the nuts from the bowl, “like getting this nut into that dude’s shot glass,” he pointed to a patron on the opposite side of the bar, “while blindfolded and spinning in circles.” 

Scotty stayed looking at the foam in his beer. It didn’t look like a galaxy much anymore. 

“Hey,” Will put a hand on Scotty’s shoulder. “Sorry, man. That… I didn’t mean…” 

“It’s alrigh’.” He took another sip. “Yer prob’ly righ’ anyway.” 

“Well, yeah, but I shouldn't have shot it down like that. Not while you’re already in the dumps, yeah?” 

Scotty just shrugged. 

Will sighed beside him. “It’s getting kinda late. How ‘bout I buy you one for the road?” 

He wanted to say no, tell the man to piss off. But in all likelihood, Will was right. This idea, this _transwarp_ concept, was utter rubbish. 

But there was one piece of it that would, _couldn’t_ , leave his mind. _It’d break the 100 mile limit._

“Two pints,” he herd Will order, voice fading the way people always seemed to when he got stuck on an idea. 

_The math alone_. But math was solvable. And if done correctly, who’s to say one couldn’t land a nut in a shot glass blindfolded and spinning in circles. 

He was certain Will was reading his silence as being upset but honestly didn’t care. There were equations starting to form in the outer reaches of his mind, swirling together with the foam of his untouched beer. 

“C’mon. Let’s go home,” Will offered, settling their tab and tugging gently at Scotty’s arm. 

The night air was comfortably cool, refreshing to an alcohol-soaked mind. It was exactly what he needed. The moonlight hit the wheatfield with silver threads, casting shimmering highlights on the golden shadows. It was an image he’d think about often in the next few months. 

Once back at their quarters, Scotty offered, “I’m naw' mad at ya.” 

Will shook his head. “Scotty, I know. You got that _piss off and let me think_ look going.” He opened the door to his room. “But, you know, take it easy okay. Don’t… don’t let it burn a hole in your brain. Don’t try to solve something that can’t be.” He tapped at the doorway to his room. “Get some rest, man.” The door closed behind him. 

But rest was for times when an idea lay dormant. 

This one was alive, rustling in the bushes, sticking to the fringes of vision. 

_There’d be no 100 mile limit_. _Who decided there was one anyway?_ _What rules are there to physics really when they’ve been disproven before?_

He sat down at the desk in his room, hologram to the right awaiting sketches, code to the left ready for commands. His hands moved, slowly, vaguely, but there was _something_ there. Something itching at the back of his mind; a fading dream after waking. 

His eyes were heavy, burning from staring so long. 

_Five minutes_ , he told himself, letting his forehead rest on his folded arms. _Just five minutes…_

“Scotty?”

His head shot up, eyes still blurry with sleep. The voice repeated his name and he looked up to see the image of Mira on his left-on holoscreen. He blinked a few times, letting her visage clear up. “Mira?” Something was wrong. Her voice was too quiet and too harsh, eyes darting as if watching over her shoulder, checking her peripherals. 

“Mind letting me in?” 

_Huh?_ He noticed then the background behind her. Rolling fields _just_ beginning to light up with sunrise, streaks of red in the sky from the clouds catching the sun’s fire. “Wha’... how did ya geh here?” 

“Your pilot friend. Look, Scotty-”

“”Nessa’s here?” 

“Yes, and she’s coming back to get me soon. Scotty, please, I need to talk to you.” She cast another glance around. “And you weren’t answering my calls.” 

Guilt spiked through him. He should’ve known his avoidance wasn’t exactly going unnoticed. “Righ’.” He stood, pushing away from his desk and padding quietly to the front door, careful not to wake Will. He opened it and Mira rushed inside, tugging on his wrist to lead him to his room. Were he not still trying to catch up on what the devil was going on, he’d have thought this to be a positive turn.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” he asked as soon as she shut his door. 

“I found something,” Mira whispered back. “Something I’m certain I wasn’t supposed to find.” 

“Wha’ are ya-”

“It’s about Clara.” 

A jolt of fear shot through him like a lightning strike. _Clara_. “Is she alrigh’? Wha’s wrong?” 

Mira put a finger to her lips signaling him to keep it down. “Her condition hasn’t changed, but…” 

“But wha’!” 

“Shh.” She glanced around again. “Listen, I… I may have done something… not one hundred percent legal…” 

He stared at her, waiting for her to continue. 

Mira blew out a heavy sigh and sank down to the edge of Scotty’s bed. “Look, I… you weren’t answering my calls. And I knew you were stressed and I… I guess I just thought that if I could help get Clara better, then you’d… I don’t know, have time for me again…” 

_Oh._ _Fuck. I cocked tha’ up_. 

“Mira,” he said softly. 

She held up a hand. “Another conversation another time, Scotty.” She paused, biting at her lip. “I looked at her file.” 

“Her file? Her medical file?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Tha’s-”

“Illegal, I know. She’s not my patient, but Scotty,” she stood, pulling an honest to God piece of paper from her handbag, “I found this.” She handed him the paper, the edges crinkled and bent from where it had been in her purse. He looked at it, finding it to be a copy of Clara’s medical file. He recognized some things: names of medicines she’d been prescribed, some notes from doctors’ visits where he’d sat behind his mother, hands tinkering with whatever portable project he’d scrounged up as they’d delivered news of her condition and treatment. 

Mira went on to explain. “Goki-N’Mel’s is treated with one of three medinces,” she pointed them out on the paper, “Rydophol, Triethoglycine, and Phythergenocycline.” She looked up at him. “Do you remember a story you told me once about you and your friend and Clara skipping stones; she had like a pea shooter with that stretchy tubing, El-”

“ElastiPlast, aye.” 

“How old was she at that time?” 

“About seven. Why?”

“ElastiPlast is only used in the administration of Rydophol.” She pointed to the paper. “In January of 2237, Dr. MacAlister took her off of Rydophol, and bumped her up to Triethoglycine, a perfectly natural development in her treatment; but she also made a note of Clara complaining of general itching and tenderness in her neck, likely her thyroid.” 

“So?” 

“So, the note is in bold.” She indicated the paper again. “Starfleet Medical protocol automatically bolds notes made in the last six months,” she waved a hand quickly at his questioning look, “it’s a way to track student’s treatment progress. But a mainland hospital wouldn’t have that system.” 

“So... wha’ Dr. MacAlister made a change ta an old note... recently?” 

“Yeah, but here’s the thing. Dr. MacAlister has been dead for fourteen months.” 

Scotty looked up at her, eyes wide. “Mira-” 

“That’s not all,” she cut off. “Thyroid inflammation is a somewhat rare, but extremely serious side effect to Triethoglycine. If Clara had really complained of it, there’s no way Dr. MacAlister would have kept her on it for three years. She’d have put her back on Rydophol until she was about ten and capable of handling Phythergenocycline.” 

“Which is what she’d been taking until she developed an allergy.” 

“Right? But did she?” 

Scotty’s heart began to beat wildly in his chest. “Wha’ are ya sayin’ Mira?”

“Scotty… what if… what if someone simulated an allergic reaction and sent her to the hospital, all while hacking into her medical file to make it look like she wasn’t capable of taking Triethoglycine so she’d have to be treated with Rydophol.” 

“But why?” 

“To keep her bedridden, out of the way, I don’t know.” She moved a little closer. “Was she working on a case?” 

“You think a client, wha’, poisoned her?”

“Look, I know it sounds ridiculous. But why change her file? Why knock her down to a lesser treatment? Why not, you know, just take her out if she was a threat?” She pointed at the paper. “This is _tactical_ . This is keeping her alive but only _just_. So why? Why would someone do that?”

 _Why_? 

Was it the case she was working on? The one with the tech? But that didn’t make sense. If she’d gotten into something she wasn’t supposed to or shouldn’t have seen, they’d have… they’d have killed her. This was something else. _Think_ , he ordered himself. _Why keep someone barely alive_ . Is it… torture? A way to get her to spill information? No. They’d hacked into her medical file; surely they could’ve gotten her case files. _Why else?_ Punishment? A way to get back at her for putting someone away? _Maybe_ ? But why the long play? Revenge was a quick motivation - she’d told him that once. _Think!_ Blackmail? No. Blackmail would mean threatening something she held close, something dear. 

Oh. 

_No. No. No. No. No._

“Did ya bring yer PADD?” he asked her. 

Mira nodded, pulling her Starfleet issued PADD from her bag. 

He took it greedily, plugging it up to his still turned on holoscreens. “Pull up her chart,” he demanded, already calling up tracing programs. 

Mira did as told, fingers tapping at the PADD’s surface. “What are you thinking?” 

“Tha’ Clara wasn’t the target.” 

Mira whipped her head to face him, mouth open with a ready question. But she stilled it, doing instead what he instructed and slipping to stand behind him. 

“You said tha’ note was made in the las’ six months.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Within the las’ six months Clara goh sick the same day I found out I was comin’ here.” He pulled up the changed doctor’s note from Mira’s PADD, loading a tracking algorithm and began following its breadcrumbs. 

“You think someone is targeting you?” Mira asked, hand tightening on the back of his chair. 

“Wha’ were researching here could be valuable in the righ’ hands.” 

“But why go after Clara?” 

“I dunno. But I’m hopin’ ta find out.” He tapped around some more, applying back-mapping to trace the signal source for that edit. If he could find an IXP address or a timestamp he could tell from where it was sent or when. He’d have that much, something tangible to connect his theory, something more to go on. 

“What are you doing?” Mira inquired softly. 

“Tracking tha’ change. It’s heavily encrypted, rerouted over fifteen times and that’s just wha’ I can see for now. It could take hours before I can fully decrypt it. But I should have the first few numbers coming up… Ah.” 

The first four digits flashed on screen. 

Scotty’s hands stopped. “Wha’?” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“It can’t be.” 

“Scotty?”

The remaining numbers appeared quickly, able to do so only because the IXP was a familiar one.

The world spun as the number blinked on screen. 

“It’s… it’s mine.” He swallowed. “Tha’ note change. It came from my PADD.” 

She looked at him curiously. His heart was pounding. Confusion changing to frustration in his chest, tightening in a horrible mixture. 

Someone had used his PADD to hack Clara’s file. 

His hands began to shake, breath getting ragged. 

_Think_ ! _Who’s had your…_

Oh God. 

His eyes turned to his doorway, his mind to the room beyond it. 

The pounding of his heart filled his ears. Blood was rushing as his emotions slipped from confusion to betrayal, to anger. 

_It can’t be_. 

He stood slowly, ignoring Mira’s hushed calls of his name, her demands to know what was going on. He opened the door, vision narrowing in on his destination. His footsteps were drowned out by the pulsing anger strangling his chest, mounting with every centimeter covered. The short space stretched for miles and yet was traversed in mere seconds. 

The door’s lock was easily disengaged, standard locks having yet to hold him back from his goal since he was a child. And what a terrible goal it was. 

“Ya bastard!” he yelled, storming to where Will was laying now startled awake. Scotty grabbed the man by his shirt front and pulled him up to face him. “Ya fuckin’ _bastard!_ ” 

“What the hell, man,” Will protested, trying to pull away. 

Scotty’s grip only tightened. “Ya made Clara sick, ya bloody _Clag_.”

“Scotty,” Mira cautioned from Will’s doorway. 

“Who’s that? 

“Why’d ya make her sick?” 

“What are you talking about?” His eyes flashed over to Mira. “What the hell are you talking about?!” 

He shook Will to get his focus back. “Ya know bloody damn well wha’ I’m on about. Ya fuckin’ hack my PADD, make Clara sick and keep her there. For wha’? So ya can keep me all distracted and steal mah work?” 

“You’re crazy!” 

“Am I?” 

“Scotty, let him go.” 

“Answer me, ya wee shite!” 

“Yes, okay! I’ve been passing off some of your work as mine.”

Scotty let go. 

Will fell onto his bed, head bumping against the wall. Rubbing at it Will went on. “You have no idea, do you? No idea how hard it is to stand out from the crowd. To be smart enough to run in the circles that matter.” 

Scotty glared at him; Mira moved a little further into the room. 

“Ya hacked yer way into Archer’s program.” 

“I saw an opportunity and I took it.” Will shrugged. “And then like magic you fell in lap and _boom,_ I was in. All I had to do was be nice to you for like two seconds, put up with your constant rambling and ludicrous theories, and then just sit back and siphon off your work.” 

Scotty frowned. “Surely Archer was suspicious.” 

Will laughed. “That’s the best part! He was so on to me and then you freaking stood up for me, defended that it was _our_ idea. Together.” He scoffed. “I mean, shit, Scotty. How desperate for a friend were you?” 

“You piece of shit!” Mira cursed. 

But Scotty felt like the ground was slowly swallowing him up, vision fading at the edges. _It was all a lie. A bloody lie._ “So why keep Clara sick?” 

Will shook his head. “I had nothing to do with that.” 

Mira glared, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re lying,”

“We know ya hacked inta my PADD and changed her chart.” 

“No!” 

Scotty moved to grab him again. Will put his hands cowardly near his face. “Christ, Soctty, I didn’t! I swear!” 

“He’s right,” a softly British-accented voice answered from behind them. Three pairs of eyes landed on the familiar figure in the doorway. But the voice and the figure didn’t match; a puzzle put on hold by the Phaser in her hand getting the most attention. “I did.” 

Scotty let loose a shaky breath. “Vanessa?” 

She kept her Phaser trained on him, unblinking, steady, as though she’d done this a thousand times. Tilting her head just barely to the side facing the front door she calmly instructed, “Let’s take a walk, Scotty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, right? Kind of makes you want to click that NEXT button, huh? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S'up, Chapter 7 People! You ready for this part of this ride? 
> 
> Chapter warnings - breaking and entering, so much bad language, juvenile delinquency, minor drug use, threats

**Chapter Seven**

**_2238.12.09_ **

It had been ridiculously easy to hack into the school’s server and gain access to the advanced science labs. A day of recon, an hour - if that- of applying backdoor protocols and laying in alternate IXP address to reroute the signal and throw off anyone getting a whiff of his scent, and easy as spit, he was in. Rows and rows of shelves lined with all the latest tech goodies available to A-level students stretched nearly two meters tall. But he was after one very specific item: dilithium protoplasm. The lab had recently gotten a shipment in from the shipyard outside of town, a donation to the school in celebration of the recent internship program. 

Monty would never admit to wanting that internship more than anything. However, his candidacy was never even considered, poor grades, school fights, and oh yeah, breaking and entering into secure areas of the school being a blaring sign screaming NO. 

Still, he needed that protoplasm. And it wasn’t like these knobheads in A-level science would know what it was they had. 

He’d slipped Mr. Duthrie’s fancy electric torch into his pocket before leaving the man’s shop class. He felt a little bad about that, but had full intention of returning it. But he couldn’t risk turning on the lights and being spotted, plus the torch’s beam was hyperfocusable so no scattered light could be detected by any passersby. 

He scanned the shelves, searching with the torch, careful not to shine it in the direction of the door. A beep from his watch told him he only had ten minutes until Ms. Kahasaki would enter the supply room to prepare for her next class while they were at lunch. 

“C’mon,” he whispered, searching a little more frantically. 

Finally his beam landed on the box labeled: DILITHIUM PROTOPLASM - CHEMICAL HAZARD - PROCEED WITH CAUTION - PROPER ATTIRE REQUIRED. Good thing he had all the tools he needed. 

He dropped his bookbag by his feet and held the torch in his mouth between his teeth. Gloves and goggles applied, he reached up for the box, fingers  _ just _ making contact with the edges. But he was too short to reach it. He’d have to find something to stand on. 

_ Fish would’ve been able to reach it. _

He squeezed his eyes shut, the thought so heavy, so torturous that he stood there motionless, the weight of it crushing him. A deep breath. A few tears traitorously trailing down his cheeks. He needed to move; he didn’t have time for this. 

_ Fish would’ve been able to reach it,  _ his mind repeated. 

He sank to his knees, trying to fight the tightness in his chest from where he was holding back clawing sobs.  _ It’s okay. It’s fine. _

He felt a little dizzy. 

His watched beeped again. Six minutes.

_ Move. There’s no time for feeling sorry fer yerself. _

Scanning the shelves again, torch beam grazing over beakers and powders, scales and safety equipment, labels impossible to read with his watery eyes, he managed to find a crate used for carrying lab equipment, turned it upside down to stand on it. 

Wiping his eyes, he tested his weight on the crate. It creaked but it held. Carefully he reached up and inched the heavy box towards him. It moved painfully slowly, making more noise than he accounted for. 

_ Come on, come on!  _

And then the door opened. 

Monty instantly clicked off the light and ducked behind one of the shelves. He put a hand over his mouth to keep from his breathing being heard. Only too late did he realize his bookbag was out in the open. 

“Who’s in here?” a voice called out. Ms. Kahasaki. The light snapped on. 

The hair on the back of Monty’s neck stood on end; he huddled further back into the shelter of the shelves, eyes watching the teacher roam the length of the room, heels tapping against the floor with each step closer. 

She stopped in front of the bookbag and crate. Looked at it. Looked up at the protoplasm box inched closer. Back down at the bag. She kicked at it lightly with her foot. “That explains where all my supplies have been going.” 

Monty narrowed his brows and shrunk back further.  _ Was someone else sneaking in _ ? 

“I know you’re in here. Give it up.” She turned to look behind the shelving opposite him. It was his only chance. 

Monty burst from his hiding place, running as fast as he could towards the door. But it was no use. He was caught, hand on his arm pulling him to a stop. 

Ms. Kahasaki frowned at him. “Should’ve guessed it was you.” 

“I haven’t taken anything,” he protested, hating how his voice cracked from previously held-back tears. Why did he still feel like crying. 

“No? Then what’s going on here?” She pointed to his bag and the crate. 

“I…” but he had no answer, nothing he could think of quickly enough.  _ Bollocks _ . 

“Fine. You can explain it to Principal Wen.” She let go of his arm, instructing him to pick up his bag. Monty followed her out of the supply closet, dragging his steps.  _ Fuck _ .  _ Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! _

Principal Wen was a short man from America who’d come to McBride Primary three years ago. He was… fine, if Monty was being honest. A straight-shooter, tough when he needed to be. But what annoyed Monty about the man was his “no cursing” policy. He roamed the halls giving warnings to students caught swearing, as if most students didn’t hear such language on a daily basis, use it on a daily basis. 

It was an unofficial competition to see who could rack up the most detention hours for cursing up a blue streak so profane he all but collapsed. The current record holder was Jordy McLauren who managed to curse for two minutes straight in three separate languages, never once repeating himself. 

So under normal circumstances, Monty would’ve turned up the dial and pulled out the heavy-hitting repitor. But with Ms. Kahasaki’s accusation now sitting in his file, he figured he better play his cards right. 

“Okay, Montgomery,” Wen placed his hands open on his desk, “tell me what happened.” 

Monty rolled his eyes, crossed his arms. “I didn’t take anything.” 

Wen nodded casually, pulling up a folder on his holopadd. “Ms. Kahasaki says you were trying to steal the dilithium protoplasm. Bit of an upgrade from the rest of the stuff gone missing: calcium fluoride, sodium pentaphosphate, sodium chlorate.” 

_ That’s Salts, stuff. _ Is  _ someone here making Salts.  _

“You know anything about that?” 

Monty shook his head.

Wen continued, “Didn’t think so. Whatever you used to hack in is way more advanced than the other guy. Almost wouldn’t have known you were in there.” a pause. “Almost.” 

_ Liar,  _ thought Monty.  _ Ya had no idea, ya bawbag. _

“So, why the protoplasm?” He set the padd down. 

Monty chose not to answer, not that that stopped Wen. 

“Wanna hear my guess?”

_ No. _

“That protoplasm is for the internship students. Now records say you applied for that internship but didn’t get in. So what? If you can’t have it, they can’t either.” He tapped his fingers on the desk, maybe awaiting a response, maybe not. It was difficult to tell. “What would you even use it for?” 

That Monty could answer. “Do ya know dilithium crystals produce three thousand kilograms of DP a year? Most of tha’ gets ejected with scheduled rubbish dumps, but I think it could be repurposed as an emergency fuel for impulse engines. Ya just have to cool it down an’ compress it enough. Constitution-class ships are already equipped with both systems, compression in the weapons ejector chamber, an’ cooling in the greenhouse levels an’ life support lines.” 

“You want to run radioactive material through life support?” 

Monty scoffed. “Naw' active lines. Sec’ion off a part of the ship. This is emergency situations, remember.” 

Wen almost smiled. He folded his hands on top of his desk. “So you wanted the protoplasm to test this theory? Where were you going to even try this?” 

“I was gonna figure tha’ out.” 

“Right. Okay.” He signed and picked up his holopadd again. “Look, Montogmery, you’re smart, okay. Super smart. Too smart for your own good really.” 

“Never liked that expression.” 

“Of course you don’t.” Another sigh. “Look, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you  _ were _ considered for that internship.”

Monty blinked.  _ Wha’? _

Wen went on, “However the board felt that it was a reward and by giving it to you they were then... rewarding certain behaviors.” 

“Behaviours?” Monty spat. “Like wha’?” 

“Montgomery,” another sigh, “you don’t do your homework, you skip class, you don’t follow directions on your labs and instead go off experimenting  _ in class _ . You don’t show your work on your math tests-”

“-Shouldn’t have ta-”

“You correct teachers-”

“-They’re wrong-”

“Maybe, but they don’t deserve to be called” he checked his notes, scrolling on his padd’s screen, “numpty, plonker, and I can’t read that word.” 

“ _ Cliospairneach _ . It means cock.” 

“Montgomery. You have a problem with authority. You have a problem with rules-”

“So jus’ because I don’t blindly follow a bunch of arbitrary-”

“Safety isn’t arbitrary-

“-rules and don’t do well at school-

“You could if you tried-

“-I’m automatically naw' even considered!”

“There were other factors too. That whole business with Rob Mitchel and Ed-”

“Don’t.”

There was enough acid in it that Wen backed off, holding up his hands in an innocent gesture. “Okay. I get it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face “Look, kid, you still have another year left of school. Start now, straighten up. And when you apply next year, I guarantee you’ll have a much better shot at getting a spot in that internship.” 

But that was no longer the point, no longer the goal. He’d been intentionally ignored, written off, because he wasn’t willing to color inside the lines.

_ Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all! Yer smarter than the lot of ‘em. _

Monty narrowed his eyes, tightened his jaw “Aye? To do wha’? To hob-knob around with a bunch of brown-nosin’, minging’ bloody know-it-all twats?” He scoffed. “Fuck. No.” 

“Watch the language, Mr. Scott.” 

He held up his hand, middle fingers in an obscene V.“Ya watch tha’.” 

“That’s enough.” Wen tapped on his holopadd, signing something. “Two hours detention for breaking into the supply closet. And one for the language. Please serve it by the end of the week.” He handed his padd to Monty who signed in forcefully. 

“ _ Cliospairneach _ ,” he muttered, turning to leave, slinging his bag onto his shoulder. 

“Montgomery,” Wen called after the young man took a step or two. “Counselor said you missed your last two sessions.” 

God, Monty was gonna  _ gut _ someone.  _ Pisser _ . 

“Please make your next one or I’ll make them mandatory,” Wen threatened. 

“Isn’t tha’ already makin’ ‘em mandatory?” 

The man quirked a small smile. “Too smart, Mr. Scott. Too smart for your own good.” 

Detention was nothing new. By the third time he’d been sent there he’d claimed “his” seat, a desk with a notecard under the front right leg to keep it from wobbling, and three pieces of chewing gum stuck to the underside following the arc of the drawn cock and balls. 

The thing about detention was it was barely supervised. Mr. Crowder, the art teacher, didn’t much believe in the punishment and let everyone chat while they doodled the mandatory “what I did wrong and how I hope to change” sketches that he claimed helped students express their anger and individuality. Really, Monty thought, it was just a way for the man to get away with letting the kids draw boobs and the like; some renderings were actually quite nice - Kyle Gorgski had a real Renaissance flair. Monty typically submitted a blueprint or labeled drawing, although his own cartoon of an alternate definition to warp core had gotten a laugh from Damien Stilks, his usual desk partner. 

“Saved ya a hit?” Damien stated, offering Monty the tailend of his joint. 

Monty took it, dragging in the last bit of Andorian weed, letting it settle the tight feeling in his chest that hadn’t left since the supply room and thinking about-

“Cheers, mate.” 

“Ya looked like ya could use it. Tough sentence from the Wen-ker?” 

Monty shrugged. “Nothin’ more than usual. Although Ms. Kahasaki thought I was stealin’ bunch of stuff to make Salts.” 

Damian laughed. “Wish ya were. That stuff is killer.” Damian scratched at the wispy hair on his chin. “Gotta find who’s sellin’ it. See if they can’t cut me a deal, ya know.” 

“Righ’,” but Monty’s mind was already going. 

Mr. Crowder handed out their papers, giving his usual instructions about drawing what they did wrong. Monty took his eagerly, pencil at the ready to start mapping out what he’d need for his plan. He made a list of needed materials, hand automatically adding Fish’s name on the first line. He stared at it, wishing he had some more of that joint to pull on.  _ Focus. _ Because he had an idea. 

_ Whatever you used to hack in is way more advanced than the other guy _ . 

Wen was right. It  _ was _ way more advanced. And if he could get into some school supply closet without a trace, then who’s to say his target couldn’t… expand. 

“Hey Damian…” 

“Aye?” 

“How’d ya feel about a little trespassin’’?” 

Damian looked a little confused, bloodshot eyes a little unfocused. But after a moment he began to smile, nodding as he comprehended. “Killer.” 

**2258.09.19**

The night air was warming as the sun continued to highlight the hills in the distance. It'd crest soon, dawn on the grounds and dry up the droplets of dew clinging to his boots as he and Vanessa trudged through the south field. They were a good hundred meters from the living quarters, far away from civilization yet close enough for her to make sure Mira didn't make a run for it. Not that she'd get very far; Panerus required a special permit to use their transporters and unless she stowed away she wouldn't be leaving the planet without Vanessa piloting her off. 

Vanessa had known the moment the woman had asked her for a ride that she'd figured something out; discovered a carefully hidden truth. The whole flight she'd tried to pry an answer from the woman, but Mira kept her mouth shut, saying she needed to talk to Monty immediately. Eavesdropping on the conversation hadn't been difficult. A dropped bug into Mira’s bag meant every word was audible. It didn't surprise her in the least that Scotty had pieced it together, if not entirely correctly. In a way it made her feel good about her job, both that she'd done it well and in her choice for the program. 

"This is far enough." 

He stopped, turned, hands still raised in a gesture of innocence, fingers far away from any pocket containing the possibility of defense. "Is the Phaser really necessary?" 

"I've never lowered my weapon," she answered, "and don't intend to start now. Besides," she bobbed a shoulder, "it's a compliment in way."

“Tha' so?" 

"It means I find you intelligent enough to have an escape plan." 

He scoffed. "Hate ta disappoint." 

"Oh don't beat yourself up. I'd be utterly upset in my performance if you'd actually pieced it together." 

"So ya are a spy?" 

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Nothing so trite as that. I work for a group with specific interests. You happened to become one of them." 

"Let me guess. I didn't get into Archer's program on my own, righ'?" 

Vanessa narrowed her brows. It was funny how the the similarity to Clara didn't seem so prevalent anymore. "You are joking? Scotty, even if you weren't one of the most brilliant people I've ever met, Archer’s interest in your career alone had you top of the list." 

He didn't look convinced. She couldn't blame him really. She had lied to him for months. But that part was true; he was brilliant. It was also the foundation to his current situation, whether he knew it or not. 

"Then wha' the hell, Vanessa? If tha's even who ya are?"

"It's not. But that's hardly important." She paused. The whole walk out here she'd thought about what she wanted to say, which of her secrets she could reveal if it meant salvaging him as an asset. She feared, though, that she'd crossed that threshold, lost him to his own anger and self-deprecation. Still, a few answers might sway him back. People were surprisingly trusting if they thought you were on their side. 

"My employers caught word of Archer's program. I was charged with finding an infiltration point." She watched his face, checked to see if he was willing to listen. It was key moment, something to establish if this had a chance of working. She chose to go on, signs encouraging. "I flew that shuttle for weeks, gathering intel, observing potential targets, someone from which I could pull information, details about Archer's program. I'd all but given up, was thinking of changing tactics. Then next thing I know I'm handing you a wrench and you're prattling on about every detail of your research. It... Scotty, it was perfect. You were perfect. I was getting privileged information, data at a level that might as well have put me in the front row of the class." 

"Well how lucky fer ya," he spat. 

"And for you." Her hand flexed on the Phaser, muscles growing exhausted from holding it so long. "It was through those sessions that I discovered just how truly, genuinely brilliant you are. I presented your case to my employers, took them less than a week to decide to move you up from informant to desired recruit." 

"This where you give me the spiel?" 

"I wish." She sighed. "I had a whole speech prepared. A pitch catered to your needs, your wants. How with us you'd be able to pursue whatever scientific breakthrough you'd desire, rules and regulations be damned. It'd be you and nothing but pure experimentation, pushing physics past their breaking point, stretching science to its limits." 

"Sounds good. But, oh tha’s' righ', ya poisoned mah sister!" 

"Clara was an unfortunate answer to a very particular problem." 

"Meaning wha'?" 

"Meaning as much as we wanted you in our employ, so did Archer. And I knew once you found out he had plans for you to join the  _ Enterprise _ project it'd be over." 

He looked shocked, jaw falling, eyes matching the ghostly outline of the fading moons in the sky, lightening with every additional ray of sun. "He never said anything." 

"It was conditional of your progress here." She tilted her head towards the expansive fields. "But that left me with a tight timetable. I needed you to still be working here when the call for hands came for the Enterprise. I could sabotage your research, sure, but my employers were equally eager to get their hands on it. I needed to slow you down  _ just _ enough and I needed to do so right from the start because I knew that if you got the chance to sink your teeth into this project, even for only a matter of days, I’d be too late. I needed you distracted but not overtly diverted.” 

“So ya wen’ after Clara.”

“I’m not proud. And if it’s any consolation, I had a team standing by, ready to act the moment her condition showed signs of worsening. She’d make a miraculous recovery and I’d find something else to redirect your rather obsessive focus.”

He didn't look impressed but that didn't disturb her. It had been a low blow, going after his sister, but necessity ruled. And it wasn't like she'd been in real danger. 

“Wha’ about Will? He with ya too?”

She frowned. “And here I credited your genius.” She rolled her shoulder, arm starting to protest its long hold in position. “William Blanchett is an idiot who got lucky you were too damn desperate for a friend to see past his clumsy attempts at cheating for fame.”

It was a pitiful look that crossed his face. Something in her gut twisted at it, something that had her admitting, “That’s not an accusation, by the way. Loneliness is a powerfully blinding emotion.” She let her wrist drop just a hair. “I used it too.” 

She told herself it hadn't hurt, it hadn't made her chest feel tight to watch him fall so easily into a fast friendship with a person she'd concocted to do exactly that. “It’s also why I was curious about the exact nature of your relationship to Mira. If she was fulfilling a need for companionship then I was out an avenue. Luckily you seemed intent on destroying that bridge yourself, at least I thought. You do inspire a rather unique sense of loyalty. Or maybe that’s just usefulness.” That last part was unnecessary. But there were ties that needed to be severed. She was not his friend, at least not anymore. A contact, yes, should he agree. But the person he cared about didn't exist and it was time for him to know and accept that notion. 

“So wha’ happens now?” he asked quietly. His hands were still in the air, although they had sunk considerably. 

Vanessa flexed her fingers on the Phaser. “Normally I’d give you that spiel and see if you say yes.”

“And when I surprisingly don’t agree ta work for the people tha’ poisoned mah sister, manipulated me, and are currently pointin’ the business end of a Phaser at me?”

“That’s when I persuade you.” A roll of her stiffening shoulder. “You have two options. If you say yes, you’ll finish your work here over the course of the next two weeks, long enough for the finishing engineering teams to be assembled. You’ll then let Will take credit for the work, a bribe to keep him quiet about the last few hours. And in return Clara will make a full recovery and be compensated very well for her time away from work.”

“An’ if I say no? You kill her?”

Vanessa shook her head, eyes dropping a degree. “You’d… you wouldn’t recover from that loss. It’d render you useless.”

He scoffed, not letting her show of emotion affect him. “So wha’ then?”

She hardened her features and brought the Phaser back up to it’s stern position. This was business, pure and simple now. “If you say no, then we make us the only option for you to say yes to. We will fight you, discredit you, belittle your work, take away your contributions. We will make your life a living hell. You’re career will be over before you even know it. Not even the freighters will hire you.”

There was anger in his eyes. He was pissed and rightly so. But there was something else too, something she'd gotten very good at spotting these past few months. 

"You're thinking. I can see the gears turning." She moved her finger to the trigger of the Phaser but let it rest on the guard. "You're trying to find a way out of this." 

His jaw flexed. She needed to nip this in the bud. Time to put the final nail in. 

"Let me make this abundantly clear. You try anything, pull any shit, spill a word, and every senior Starfleet officer will have a four page report on their desk.

"Wha' ov?" 

"St. Martha's." 

She watched it descend over him. That secret, that horror refreshing itself in the budding daylight. His face changed to something so broken, so hopeless, begging eyes. 

"You didn't think Clara's was the only medical file I hacked, did you?" No answer. She really wasn't expecting one. She reaffirmed her grip on her Phaser, hand protesting at the hold in her muscles. 

"So, what will it be? Yes or no?" 

"Go to hell." 

"Not an option, I'm afraid." 

He glared at her, eyes furious. She couldn't blame him. 

He dropped his hands, scrubbing one across his face. She had the Phaser up and aimed true the moment his hands moved. 

"Relax, alrigh'? Just gettin' tired ov holdin' 'em." He sighed, scrubbed at his face some more. "I have a question." 

She motioned for him to go on. 

"Wha' happens, ya know assumin' I've said yes, wha' happens once I've... exceeded mah usefulness?"

Damn him. She breathed deeply, knowing he'd hit the core of it, the nail on the head as it were. "Dammit if you aren't smart, Scotty. Too smart for your own good, really." 

"I never liked that phrase." 

"You wouldn't." She sighed again, shaking her head, grip shifting on her weapon. "Damned if you do-"

"Dammed if I donnae, eh?" he finished for her. 

Shaking her head she admitted, "This is exactly why I didn't want to do this this way. So... messy." 

"Can I suggest we just... leave it? Go home? Have a cuppa?"

She wanted to smile. His very life was hanging in the air, suspended there by his next decision and he was suggesting the way around it to be just forgetting it ever existed. 

She'd never admit how nice that sounded. 

"I'm afraid I need an answer." Her fingers shifted on her hold. She was a long way from perfect defensive stance. 

Scotty blew out a breath, crossed his arms. "Well look, I'm... I'm hardly gonna make a choice righ' now, alrigh'?" 

She narrowed her eyes at him. 

"It's a bit of a big decision there, lass. I'm gonna need a minute, yeah?" 

"A minute?" 

"More like a week if I'm honest." 

She reenforced the Phaser at him but he didn't seem fazed by it much anymore. "Best I can give you is an hour." 

He shrugged. "Dunno if I'll have an answer by then." 

"Quit playing around." 

"Look, I'm serious, lassie. And even if I  _ did _ agree to this, which, chances are slim, by the way, I still have experiements here tha' are time sensitive, and I'm due ta be at Clara's like now, not ta mention Archer will wonder where the fuck I vanished off ta." He shook his head, wet his lips. "All I'm sayin' is I've goh things ta wrap up, and they've gotta geh wrapped up for either answer so... ya know. A week." 

She sighed irritated. "Two days." 

"Och, come on? Ya've already taken most mah mornin'. Five days." 

"Three and that's final." 

"Fine." He sniffed. "But Clara starts gettin' bet'er now." 

She threw some acid into it. "Fine." She motioned with the Phaser for him to get walking again. He obliged, keeping his arms by his side this time. 

"I'm taking Mira back to Headquarters," Vanessa announced once they were well on their way back. 

"Ya gonna threaten her too?" he ventured. 

"She has some skeletons I can rattle to keep her quiet if that’s what you mean." 

It was but he didn’t like the sound of it. Mira didn’t deserve to have any past secrets brought to light because of him. And Clara… 

God, the guilt was weighing like lead in his gut. How could he have been so blind, so stupid to not see past the act; to not see how Will was using him and Vanessa was lying to him? How could he have put his own sister in such danger? How could he have let Mira get mixed up in this? 

“Go to Clara’s,” Vanessa ordered. “I’ll take care of the odds and ends here.” She tilted her head to indicate the cabin of their living quarters. Mira and Will could be seen at the small table in living area, visible through his large bedroom window. It all looked so strange in the early morning light and wearing fringes of hangover. 

_ Had that really only been last night? _

“Go,” she demanded. 

He wanted to argue. To insist he got to say goodbye and apologize to Mira. To tell Will to fuck off. He wasn’t sure the story Vanessa was going to spin, but he knew it’d be far from the truth. 

_ I’m sorry _ , he bade the image of her through the window.  _ Please believe me that I’m sorry. _

…

“Oh good, you’re here,” Paul greeted as he opened the door. 

“Sorry I’m late. I goh tied up at-”

“It’s no worry. She’s still asleep.” He stepped to the side, grabbing his coat and umbrella once Monty had passed into the corridor. “Your mother mentioned having an appointment today. I can come home early or-”

“No, it’s fine. I can stay late today.” 

“You sure?” Paul picked up his briefcase. 

Monty nodded. He flashed an affirming smile before asking, “Paul, d’ya know if Clara has a copy of Granny’s book?” 

“ _ Matrix Mathematica _ ?”

“Aye, tha’s the one.” 

“It’s one of the only printed books we own. Shouldn’t be too difficult to find.” He pointed to the sitting room. “Why?” 

Monty shrugged. “Thought it might be nice to flip through it with her. Tell her about Granny and wha’ not.” 

“Ah, well, enjoy your trip down memory lane.” He put on his coat. “Call if you need anything.” 

“Thanks, Paul.” 

He left. 

Monty counted to five, the number of needed steps before Paul would be clear of the door. Monty locked it, setting up a subroutine in the door’s lock programming to record any comings and goings. He wasn’t sure how Vanessa would start to make Clara better, but he wanted to make sure she was true to her word. 

Program in place, he dashed for the sitting area, hands roaming around shelves, picking up decor and- 

“Aye! Yes, thank ya, Granny.” 

He picked up the absolute tome of  _ Matrix Mathematica  _ and brought it hastily to the kitchen table. He flipped through the pages frantically, arriving at the diagram he was searching for. 

His fingers splayed over the page, running over it deftly and remembering the first time she’d explained it to him.  _ This column logs outcome, and this one probability, and-  _

_ What are these symbols, Granny?  _

_ Functions. You’ll learn those much later,  _ a chuilein _. _

He sighed deeply, shaking off the memory. “Righ’ then, Montgomery. Time ta geh ta work.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! We're getting pretty deep in it, huh? Chapter 8, wow! 
> 
> Chapter warnings - Juvenile delinquency, abandonment, drug use, and let's go with reckless endangerment of animals

**Chapter Eight**

**_2239.05.21_ **

“Alright, laddie, watch yer head now.” 

Monty rolled his eyes at the officer and tried not to jerk away from the hand on his head guiding it safely inside the vehicle to avoid hitting it on the frame. The door was shut immediately after his foot cleared the running boards. A crosshatch pattern of mesh separated him from the front seats, allowing him to see out the windshield to the gates the flashing strobes of the blue lightbar illuminated. The Starfleet insignia mocked him. 

It’d been a flawless plan. He’d tripped up the sensors with little more than well placed magnets and some hardline wiring in to the mainframe. Finding the schematics for a transporter bay pad was cake and downloading them to his own holopad was even easier. But he needed some pieces to get him started and even that bit had been relatively simple, he did live just outside of a Starfleet shipyard after all. The problem had arose when Damien had failed to meet him at the gate with a running vehicle to facilitate his escape.

He’d gotten caught, pockets full of transporter bay parts and a holopad with top secret data on it. Monty wondered if Damien turned tail once the fuzz arrived or if he’d even shown up to begin with.  _ Fish would’ve been here. _ He instantly locked that thought up in the same overly brimming box stuffed full of Fish thoughts, if anything because Fish would never have gone along with this hairbrained plan to begin with. Then again if Fish were there, transport bay plans and pieces would be rendered unnecessary. 

The passenger side door opened in the front and Monty saw the increasingly familiar face of Chief Constable Waters flash into view with the overhead lights. “I’m afraid we gotta take ya ta the station, Monty. Trespassing, breaking and ent’ring, theft, no’small charges those, laddie.” 

Monty didn’t say a word. 

Waters frowned and called to one of the other constables, a lieutenant Monty had seen at the school when he’d been caught hacking into the electrical system to get out of an oral literature report over some book he hadn’t read. The firewall was stupidly easy to crack. So easy he’d done it twice more to change his grade in maths and permanently erase his name from instructor Harris’s PE roster, using that time in his schedule to smoke Andorian weed with Damien and plot how to make a transporter bay pad in his bedroom. 

But Damien had ditched and now he watched the main gates of the Starfleet shipyard disappear from the back window of a police car. Their vertical bars seemed to perfectly match the ones he found himself behind twenty minutes later. 

“Monty, yer a lucky bastard, ya know tha’?” Chief Constable Waters expressed. 

Through the cell bars Monty could see him standing there, hands on hips, disappointment on his brow. 

“How’s tha’?”

“Tha’ shipyard fella in charge, Commander Jacobs, is willing to waive the charges if all the stolen property is returned. Ya willing ta do that, laddie?” 

Monty nodded slowly, accepting that plans to bust Fish out of that school would be on hold until he could figure out a new way to get the transporter parts. Maybe the scrapyard would get in a new shipment this week. Havisham was pretty easy to haggle down.

“Good. I’ll let him know.” He toddled off, Phaser looking a little loose in his holster. Monty debated about pointing it out, telling him that tightening the settling screws in the base panel would keep it from slipping. But he held his tongue. Why help the man anyway? Monty suspected he’d had gone to call his mum and let her know her son had been arrested.  _ ‘Bout time, really. _

“Right bi’ o’mess yer in there, Scott,” the lieutenant from before commented once his processing paperwork had been sufficiently started. The lieutenant went on, “Yer ass has almost landed here five times in the past six months, and each time ya get off with a wrist slap ‘cause the chief fancies yer mum. But charges like these can ge’ ya sent ta detention centers, halfway houses, even disciplinary schools like yer buddy Fisher.” 

Monty narrowed his eyes at the lieutenant. 

“Oh yeah, tha’s righ’. I worked his case too. Tha’ Mitchell boy was hardly recognizable after that ordeal. If ya ask me, Fisher goh off easy.” 

“Rob started it,” Monty defended just as he had from the moment Needlemeier came onto the scene until the moment Fish shipped out for Manchester and then some. He hoped that the accompanying sniff sounded defiant and not as petulant as it felt. 

The lieutenant laughed. “Righ’ different tune then yer mum, huh?” 

Monty was confused. “Wha’ the fuck ya talking about?” 

A scoff from the lieutenant as he seemed to fully commit to the conversation, abandoning his paperwork. “She pressed charges. Sent yer mate to actual hell and now yer here in the same place. Bit poetic tha’.” He shook his head, sick grin on his face. “Soon we’ll have all ya troublemakers shipped out.” 

“She’d never press charges,” Monty answered, voice hard, mind racing.  _ What the hell is this guy on about?  _

The lieutenant pointed to something in Monty’s growing file. “Says right here: filed assault charges against Edward Fisher, 13th October, 2238.”

He gritted his teeth. “She dinnae.” 

“Well she was for sure livid enough ta, if memory serves. Cursed up a blue streak in here tha’ had even the chief blushing. ‘Course I think tha’s wha’ turned him on ta her. Ya know...”

But Monty had quit listening. 

Mum? 

Had Mum really pressed charges against Fish? Sentenced him to that blatant charade of a prison? Had she really taken him away?

So. Surely the lieutenant was lying, trying to scare him. 

Monty felt sick, nausea pitting in his stomach and solidifying there. His heart beat rapidly in his chest, legs begging to run while fists clenched, nails pinching half moons into his palms. A mantra took up in his mind, something panicky and pale:  _ it cannae be true, it cannae be true. _

Time faded into the background, not meaning anything as his heart pounded. 

_ It cannae be true, it cannae be true. _

But that chant could only sustain him so long. And suddenly she was before him. 

“Alright now, Monty,” Chief Constable Waters began, scanning his card to unlock the cell door, “let’s try and stay out of trouble now, hmm?” 

_ It cannae be true, it cannae be true. _

“Let’s go, Monty,” his mum was saying, voice tight and clipped. Angry. She was angry. But oh how he was angry too. 

They passed the bull pen and reception area, the ancient, heavy oak doors of the station. The old faded blue sedan sat idly hovering nearby. Rain soaked the pavement and hovered misty in the air. Monty shivered, wishing desperately he’d remembered his jacket. 

Geri started over towards the car, pinched voice ordering, “Monty, geh in. Clara’s home alone and ya know I don’t like leaving her.” 

He didn’t move.  _ It cannae be true.  _ The mantra pounded in time to his heart; his feet were unable to move from their locked position in front of the station house. 

“Monty, now.” 

He remained motionless, wet hair falling in his eyes, mist seeping into his shirt. 

“Wha’ is with you?” Frustration coated her words, thick and pungent. “The hackin’ and the pranks and naw' doing yer schoolwork ‘cause it’s ‘so boring’, and bunking off school to get high, tha’ was one thing. But this? Monty, breakin’ and ent’ring, theft? Wha’s goin’ on with ya?” 

_ You took away Fish. _

“Tell me it’s naw' true.” 

“Wha?” Geri shook her head, exasperation clear in the overhead LEDx street lights. “Wha’s naw' true, Monty?” 

_ It cannae be true. _

“Tell me ya didn’t press charges agains’ Fish.” 

The moment hung in the air, the hiss of rain hitting in the distance and stalking closer doing little to fill the void. 

“Monty.” 

“I knew it! Fuckin’ hell! He’s mah friend, Mum!” 

“He broke yer nose!” 

“Tha’ was an accident!” 

“No, it was a matter of time! Something was  _ deeply _ wrong with him, Monty.” 

Monty scoffed, feet unlocking and taking a step forward. “Fish would never hurt me.” 

“But he di’! And I sat there in hospital with ya as ya told everyone how he ‘accidentally’ hurt ya. How he lost sense of space an’ was so blinded with rage he didn’t recognize ya. Tha’ doesn’t make it better, Monty, and it’s a bloody wonder ya dinnae end up hurt sooner.”

“Tha’s ‘cause Fish would never hurt me!” 

“But he  _ did! _ And I saw wha’ he di’ to that Mitchell boy. Monty, if tha’ had been you…” 

“So wha’? Ya press charges, get Fish sent to prison?” 

“It’s a disciplinary school.” 

“It’s a bloody prison and ya fuckin’ know it!” 

“Don’t ya swear at me, Montgomery Scott.” 

“Ya don’t get ta tell me wha’ ta do!” 

“Like I ever could? God no, the great Montgomery Christopher Jorgensen Scott is so smart and so damn independent, naw' a soul could ever tell him wha’ ta do. Well I’ve had it with trying. I’ve had it with trying and I’ve had it with you. Ya want ta be reckless and waste yer life behind bars, go righ’ ahead.” A beat, anger seeping into the streets with the rain rushing down the storm drains. “But I cannae le’ ya do it here.” 

“Meaning wha’?” 

Geri swallowed hard, swallowed down the cries and the guilt and part of her soul standing soaked in the rain before her. “Don’t come home, Monty.” She looked away from him, cowardice too consuming to even glance his way as she started the car and backed out onto the street. 

Red taillights washed over Monty, disbelief still working its way through his thoughts. Rain puddled in his shoes, uncertainty in his gut. 

He looked right and saw the twin red dots of the car’s lights fading out like the end of a lit joint. To the left the lights of the train station whitewashed the haze in artificial promise. 

And once again he found himself frozen. 

**2258.09.20 -**

Beginning in 2192, Gemma Jorgensen taught advanced mathematics at the University of Edinburgh. Her specialization in probability theory would go on to help create some of the most accurate star maps in the Federation. She was fifty-seven when she released her first and only book which published her career-long project of the ultimate probability matrix: a guide to predicting the probability of every outcome to any problem. 

In 2203 she used it to predict the outcome of the World Cup. Her resulting riches were donated to the university. 

In 2213 she used it to predict the illness and death of her longtime research partner, Josephine Hana. She grieved for months even before the woman was in the ground. 

In 2219 she used it to predict her daughter’s likelihood of divorce. She didn’t like the odds. 

It was a complicated and weighty bit of math. And after publishing the second edition of her book, she never looked at it again. 

Until her grandson showed interest. 

She taught him the steps: make a list of every possible outcome you can think of. Cross it with every factor you can imagine. Assign each a value based on available data. And now apply the equations. Find the one that is most balanced. 

Percentages ruled her life. It was how she knew that her grandchildren would be top of their fields, pending her encouragement and training throughout their schooling. 

But life didn’t always play by percentages. 

On the night of December 17, 2237, Gemma Jorgensen passed away from a cold she did not bother to predict. 

Her matrix was eventually outdated and replaced by new maths, new programming, new machines. 

And twenty-one years after her death, Gemma Jorgensen’s matrix was going to save Montgomery Scott’s life. He just needed to get it to balance. 

His living quarters on Panerus IV looked like a bomb had gone off. 

Will had been shipped back to the Academy along with Mira; Vanessa no doubt having woven some story for his reappearance. Scotty honestly didn’t care. 

The numbers were uneven. The equation unbalanced. 

His eyes burned from staring at it, trying to figure out what he’d missed. The clock was at Forty-six hours. Twenty-six to go. Twenty-six hours to solve Transwarp Beaming. 

It was his only way out. 

All of Vanessa’s threats centered around the idea of discrediting his work. But if he could do this, solve this, get it to work, then she’d have no pull. He’d present it to Archer, claim his credit, his fame, and the repercussions of the magnitude of this project would make her intimidations invalid. He’d be untouchable. Even that report she’d wagered wouldn’t stand. 

Who would believe her? She’d be framed as some jealous nutter, trying to smear his name out of spite for his accolades. 

All he had to do was get it to work. 

But the thing about beaming into and out of warp was... well like Will said: the equivalent of landing a nut in a shot glass from across the room while blindfolded and spinning in circles. Except the shot glass was also moving and the nut was sentient. 

He scrubbed his hands down his face, eyes feeling like sandpaper. Two-day stubble scratched at his fingertips. A yawn escaped from his mouth, his body's plea for sleep. But there was too much work to do. Too much to figure out. 

He shuffled over to the replicator to make yet another cup of coffee, having switched from tea ages ago. The black bitter liquid materialized in a plain ceramic mug, bubbles swirling on top amongst the steam. It looked like oil. The acidic smell made his nose scrunch up, stomach roll at the thought of yet another cup of replicated sludge. 

There's an easier way to get a caffeine boost, a small, dark part of his mind tempted. It'd been years since those kinds of thoughts had crossed his mind. But the rational part of his brain was busy trying to solve complicated astrophysical temporal shifts on a scale involving the entirety of negative gravity in the universe and its relation to positive matter. 

Bet that bar would have some Jumpers, the dark part introduced. 

He picked up the coffee, took a large swig. It felt like acid going down his throat, settling rough in his gut. He turned back to the holoscreens, four in total since he'd dragged Will's from his room into the living space. All of them were covered in maths and half-baked ideas. 

He set the coffee mug down and reached for Granny's book, flipped open to her matrix. He'd run the math.  _ Look for the one that’s most balanced. _ But there were none. All of them were lopsided, jagged bits of unsolvable theory. 

Jumpers are pretty cheap these days. It's an emergency case. And they're not as addictive as they used to be. 

He glanced at the coffee, at the holoscreens, at the damning equations in Granny's book. 

Ah, fuck it. 

...

It was a long shot, Mira knew that. But with everything hanging over her head she knew she had to take it. And it was only right to offer Monty the same. Whether he'd take it was up in the air. Still, it seemed worth the risk. Regardless of their precarious relationship status she didn't feel he deserved this fate, the details of which she'd inferred when threatened with what could only be similar conditions. And she knew Monty, knew his flaws, his demons. Vanessa, or whoever she was, had a lot to work with... 

It had taken every favor she was owed but she'd made her way back to Panerus IV, plan in hand, escape route waiting for nothing else but passengers. She'd grab Monty, sneak him off world, and they'd disappear as new people looking for work in the outer cosmos. 

It'd be difficult, she knew, for him to let go of Starfleet; hell, it was tough on her too. But recent developments left her feeling odd, off, as if there was something far grander working in the underbelly of the Federation, something that could only spell disaster. 

She slipped the keycard into his cabin's door, surprised to hear loud music blaring, see all the lights on through the widows. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure no one had followed her, she pushed her way inside. 

"Monty?" she inquired upon seeing him 

His eyes were wide, glued to the screen before him covered in symbols and half solved equations. He didn’t seem to notice she was there; not completely unusual if he was deep within a project. She called his name again, louder this time. He turned, looked at her, eyes still wide, too wide, between the quick blinking as if to make sure she was really there. 

“Joinin’ us, huh? Cannea blame ya, it’s a good party.” 

The “us” threw her. She’d have written it off as some expression, something pulled from his manner of speaking, were it not for his shaky hands. 

“Monty, you okay?” 

He scoffed. “We’re fine. Welcome, luv.” He pointed to the empty bedroom that used to be Will’s. “Fish - ya remember Fish, right? - Fish is here.” He motioned to next to the front doorway. “The woman on fire over there is Mel. Nice lass, though she’s havin’ a hellova a time tryin’ naw' ta set the rug ablaze.” He directed his pointing to a chair in the corner. “Granny stopped by fer a bit. Naw' sure where she wen’ of’ta.” He looked around, humming as she searched. “An’ the cat runnin’ around is Edgar; although if ya wan’ ta speak ta him I’ll hav’ ta translate. He only speaks Gaelic.” 

“Didn’t even know  _ you _ spoke Gaelic,” Mira muttered, coming to a pretty accurate assessment of the situation. She gently took his face in her hand, watched as his unsteady eyes swam before concentrating on her. “Monty, what are you on?” 

He pulled from her hands, drunk looking grin on his face. “‘S’just Jumpers.”

“And how many have you had?” She reached for his arm, taking his pulse at the wrist. 

“A few.” He rubbed at his eyes with his free hand before pointing to his array of screens. “Need’d a boost ta solve it.” 

Mira followed his movement, eyeing the gibberish on the holoscreens. “When was the last time you slept?” she inquired as the sheer volume of writing began to click. 

“ _ Pfft _ ,” Monty shrugged. He turned back to staring blankly at the screens. 

Mira let her hand linger on his arm for a moment as she scanned the area looking for the cause of this mess. It didn’t take her long to locate the baggie of blue-green pills. She picked it up, comparing what was in the bag to normal street quantities of Jumpers - typically sold in fives. Three remained in the bag. If Monty had only taken two he’d be buzzed but not speaking to cats in Gaelic and envisioning long-dead relatives. At thirteen he’d be dead. OD usually occurred around nine or ten. Which meant he’d bought ten. Which meant he’d taken eight. Which meant she needed to get him to Medical  _ now!  _ _   
_ _ Damn it, Monty! _

“Monty, we need to get you to the Medbay, now.” Mira began gently pulling at his arm, trying to get it looped up around her shoulders. But he protested, head shaking hard. 

“I gotta finish it,” he slurred, hand sloppily motioning to the holoscreens. “I donnae have much time.” 

“We need to get you on a Terisol drip. You’re bordering-”

“I’m fine.” 

“No.” She held his face in her hands. “Monty, you are not,  _ fine _ . You’re high. You’re borderline OD. You’re…” He blinked rapidly, eyes swimming as he tried to focus on what she was saying, “sick, Monty. 

He seemed to grasp that concept better, maybe something in it resonating with how he felt. He let her help him to his feet this time and haul his ass to the transporter bay in the main building. Mira spun some story about getting drugged in a bar and they permitted her to return to the Academy no problem - likely scared she’d somehow press charges. 

The SA medbay was enormous, bustling with students and nurses and doctors in training. It was easy to slip Monty into an empty bio bed while she gathered supplies. She’d sneak him back to his room - still thankfully listed under his name for the duration of Archer’s program - and let him rest in private. 

Her status let her checkout medication without an attending physician's signature, but the supplies needed for the drip required one. Or two fellow residents. 

She got her friend Meghan to sign without much question. They’d pulled favors their whole residency. That just left one more… 

“Leonard.” Mira grabbed the resident doctor’s arm and pulled him to the side. “Can you sign this?” 

He looked it over, eyes flickering up to her momentarily. He knew what the supplies was generally used for, could see the medication she’d checked out, could guess almost instantly what her case was. And since she’d asked for his signature instead of an attending, he could surmise why too. 

But he signed it. He barely hesitated. Just like she’d hoped he would. Because if anyone didn’t give a crap about procedure standing in the way of treatment, it was Leonard McCoy.

“Rehab clinic referral forms are under the documents tab,” he added handing the PADD back to her. “Your patient is required to get one.” 

And that was it. She was clear. 

She rounded back to the biobed where Monty was starting to sink and curl into himself, Jumpers wearing off quickly. 

It didn’t take long to get set up in his room. Mira propped him up in bed, his eyes barely open; his limbs limp and loose. She placed a Hypo to his neck an administered a shot of  _ Amaxicaline _ to help with his eventual hangover, before setting up the tube and bag system of the  _ Terisol _ drip. 

His lids were falling heavily over his eyes as sleep invaded his mind. 

“Mira,” he called softly, voice hoarse, cracking around the consonants. 

She moved closer to him, took his hand. 

“Donnae tell Fish?” He took in a sharp breath that would’ve been a sob if he’d had the energy. “He’d be so disappointed.” 

Mira frowned at him, evaluating his condition before deciding her reply. She doubted he’d remember this conversation, but it felt too cruel to slip truths he should remember into his mind while it was in such a state. 

“Fish will never know,” she settled on. 

He grinned up at her, eyes closing. “I needed ta solve it.” 

“You will,” she encouraged despite not being so sure, a knee jerk reaction. 

He drifted off easily. 

Mira sighed, stroking his hand with her thumb. “God help me you’re never going to kick it, are you?” 

It was unfair; he’d made progress since those dark days. But after this incident, after it’d taken away their chance to run away, she thought her statement somewhat justified. Still, Mira kicked off her shoes and settled into the bed beside Monty. It didn’t take long before her own eyes were shut, her breath even. 

The rustling of a body at work woke her. She let the noise continue for a moment, exhausted mind supplying her with just enough information to assume it was Monty and Monty’s restlessness was nothing new. But as the noise pulled her further from the heaviness of sleep, she began to recall the night before. 

Her eyes sprung open and she whipped around under the covers to see Monty kneeling on the ground, tinkering with what looked like a Transporter pad. 

He’d changed clothes at some point, maybe even showered since his hair looked a bit damp, although that could’ve been from sweat; he was ferociously concentrated on his work. 

“Feeling better?” Mira inquired, brushing back her hair with a hand. 

He didn’t look up at her as he answered, “Much. Wha’eva ya gave me did the trick.” He flashed her a grin before turning back to his project. “I figured it out. Or, well, okay, mos’ of it.” 

A dog barked and Mira had to pause a moment when she followed the out-of-place sound and found Archer’s prized beagle sitting contentedly in the corner. 

“Monty?”

“Hmm,” he still didn’t look up from his work. 

“Why… Archer’s dog’s here.” 

“Righ’ aye, I found him wond’ring round the pavilion this mornin.’ I though’ it’d be perfect.” 

There was a dark sense of dread creeping up Mira’s spine, a sharp pang in her stomach that had her heart racing. Because while Monty was incredibly brilliant, he also sometimes tunnel visioned himself across generally accepted boundaries. And this dog... “Perfect for what?” 

Monty looked up then, smile wide and wild with excitement. “To prove it.” 

She wanted to ask him to elaborate but he tucked right back in to building whatever it was he was working on. It  _ did _ look like a Transporter pad. Was that even legal to build in one’s dorm? Did Monty even care? Probably not. At least his eyes looked clear, not so glassy like the previous night. 

Monty had left his PADD on the bed near her. She picked it up in interest about the time and damn near had a heart attack at finding it to be past eleven in the morning. She’d missed her first class, was late for her next. But hell, did that matter? Last night she’d been ready to leave Starfleet. And Monty… 

“Almost there,” he commented, maybe to thin air, she wasn’t sure. He was pretty vocal when he was working but it rarely was directed at anyone. 

She wanted to take a shower, maybe curl back up and sleep some more. Why not, everything still felt like a dream. 

The dog woofed lightly. 

Right, the dog. 

“Monty, what are you proving with the dog?” 

“Transwarp beaming,” he stated plainly, as if he was telling her what he had for lunch. 

Now Mira was first to admit she wasn’t an engineer. But you don’t become a Starfleet Resident M.D. without some smarts and a working knowledge of what crew members do and would do on a starship. So “transwarp beaming” might not have been descriptive in itself, but she could piece together enough. And the picture wasn’t pretty: Dog, transporter pad, transwarp beaming. 

“Maybe you should test it-”

“There’s no time,” he hissed, tightening down a bolt. “I have ta prove it before noon.” 

That pulled at a few memories from last night. He’d kept mentioning needing to solve it in time, running out of time, didn’t have much time. So there was a deadline, obviously. But for what? Archer’s study group went all semester and even then didn’t have some strict timetable on the projects. So this had to do with Vanessa Menerez, or whoever the hell she really was. Mira wasn’t sure what the woman had said to Monty, what she had over his head. But she trusted him enough to know whatever he was doing was his best, if not only, option. 

So yes, maybe the picture she was piecing together was ugly. But the fact was it was the picture they’d been given. 

In hindsight she should’ve stopped him. But there was no time for hindsight. 

“Alrigh’ boy, ya ready fer yer trip?” 

The dog wagged his tail and obediently followed to where Monty was tapping the homemade platform. “I’m gonna send ya righ’ ta Archer’s desk,” he looked cockily over to Mira, “with a stop ta Mars along the way.” He pointed to a beacon indicator on the holoscreen above his desk. 

Mira opened her mouth to protest but found no words could come out. That twisting dread curled a little tighter. “Um, Monty-”

“Bon voyage,” he told the dog. 

It vanished. 

The beacon didn’t flash. 

Monty’s brows narrowed. 

“Everything okay?” Mira inquired. 

“Well…” Monty’s eyes remained glued to the screen. “Le’s give it a minute, aye?” 

**2258.09.21**

“You killed my dog!” 

“No, sir, he’s naw' dead; I can assure ya. He’s… just naw'…” Scotty searched for the word, hands coming up uselessly to frame what wasn’t there, “assembled.” 

Archer didn’t look impressed. “Mr. Scott…” But what was there to say? What he’d done had been… idiotic. And here he’d sought to call this man a genius. But this, this incident, it was proving him wrong. 

“I can ge’ him back,” he offered, hazel eyes all but begging. At least he was remorseful. “I jus’ need some time.” 

Archer paused for a second before shaking his head. He wanted to argue with himself that this incident was unforgivable. After all, what punishment fit the crime of kidnapping someone’s dog and trapping them in some pocket of outer space? But he kept stalling in that line of thinking. And the only reason he hadn’t risen from his wheelchair and strangled the man before him was because it was all so  _ weird _ . This behavior didn’t match what he knew of Mr. Scott. 

His gut reaction had been to label it as some kind of nervous breakdown; he’d been overly stressed with taking care of his sister on top of the project, not to mention there had been a falling out between him and Lt. Blanchett. But still, the pieces weren’t fitting together and Archer was stuck evaluating if that mattered. 

“I should expel you, you know,” he spat, finger pointing accusingly if only for want of something to do, some action to perform. “This… act of pure  _ arrogance _ more than warrants it. You wanted so badly to prove yourself right you…” he sighed. “God dammit, Scott.” 

“Sir-”

“Please, just… for the love of God, tell me what the  _ hell _ you were thinking?!” 

Mr. Scott stood at attention, hands clasped behind his back in stance, unmoved from the moment he’d entered the room. He’d taken the dressing down with more grace than what Archer would’ve thought, more remorse showing on his face than what would be considered professional. But at that question, his face changed, morphed into something complex. Sadness, regret, yet something deeper, something almost poginent. 

“I wish I could, Sir.” 

It was an odd response and certainly not the one Archer had been expecting. He knew Mr. Scott, had expected him to lay into some speech about breaking eggs to make omelets and how science needed to be stretched to its limits for it to be learned. But this answer… it… like the rest of this incident, it made no sense. 

“Admiral,” his assistant addressed through his office comm. 

“Yes, Edwards.” 

“Admiral Marcus is outside for you. He says it’s urgent.” 

“Of course. Tell him I’ll be right there.” He ended the conversation and turned back to Mr. Scott who was still at attention, following the rules for once in his life. He sighed again, deeper this time. “I’ll have to bring this to the Admiralty. We’ll discuss the ramifications.” 

“Should I pack mah bags, sir.” 

Archer looked up at him, studied him, searching for some clue, some explanation to this. Maybe he didn’t want to see the truth: that Mr. Scott was no different than others who’d come before him, was a conceited man in search of his place in history with little regard to the lives that fell for such conquest. 

Archer opened his mouth to answer but Admiral Marcus chose that moment to step into his office and interrupt.

“I’m sorry to butt in, but our issue can’t wait, Archer,” he explained, stepping up right beside a still fixed Mr. Scott. “I’m afraid whatever business this is you’ll have to put it on ice.” 

“I understand,” Archer answered. He nodded dismissively to Mr. Scott who left instantly, pained look on his face the only real crack in the stony demeanor that had preceded it. 

_ Put it on ice…  _

“Mr. Scott,” he called to the retreating back. “I’m afraid the answer to your question, one way or another, is yes.” 

Mr. Scott didn’t turn around as he softly answered, “Aye, sir.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. The dog's not dead, just not in one piece at the moment. Floating as unfeeling and unhurt atoms in space, unconscious of time. Like a pause button. 
> 
> Also we now know what drove Scotty and his mum apart. And that Bones has and always will be Bones. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, Chapter 9 is rough, guys. Not going to sugar coat it. Please be weary of the tags. 
> 
> Chapter warnings - Alcoholism, drug use, implied self-harm/suicide, rehab, mention of drug-related death

**Chapter Nine**

**_2244.11.09_ **

Deidra Pixton had inherited her family’s Edinburgh repair shop almost five years ago when both her parents had died in a shuttlecraft malfunction during a routine run to Andromeda VI. She didn’t mind the work; all of her folks had been mechanically inclined, herself no exception. But it felt a little small, a little insignificant to repair toasters and hoovers and personal electronics when compared to the stories of suppliers who’d come in for parts and pieces on the cheap.

More than once she’d thought about selling the place and using the money to get her own ship, tour the stars for a change. But the trauma of what had happened to her family kept her solidly on the ground, a sentiment her new hire unequivocally did not not share. 

Renting out the back office in exchange for repair work to one Montgomery Scott, a down-on-his-luck former student who’d been all but homeless after failing out of university - he’d cited creative differences as the cause which made her laugh - had proven to be a mixed bag of a decision.

He was handsome, she supposed, charming in a way that tripped up her radar more than most men. Had her current girlfriend been down for it, she’d have offered him an invitation to join them. Not that he needed any help; his own active social life had in fact incited a new rule that all bedmates must be gone before the store opened. But Monty Scott didn’t seem entirely keen on rules and after breaking the ‘one mustn’t be drunk or high at work’ by being both one too many times, Deidra had begun to understand just why he’d failed out of uni. 

The lack of soberness didn’t bother her since he was still far superior in fixing things than any other worker she’d ever seen. However Deidra knew what addictive tendencies looked like, what wasted potential looked like, what it meant to struggle daily with the internal argument of ‘I hate this I should quit but I can’t quit because I need the job and I need a _better_ job but can’t get one because I’m never sober and fuck it I need a drink/smoke/shoot up.’ For her the cure to boredom had been Jumpers and she had the nerve damage to prove it. For Monty Scott it appeared to be Starfleet. 

He was obsessed really, or maybe it was more entirely convinced it was the answer to all his problems. (She’d been through enough group sessions and therapy to know it wouldn’t solve anything.) But from the moment he’d suggested applying, he’d sunk more and more into the requirements and boosting up his studies - poor grades could be contested with an entrance exam after all.

He’d have her quiz him while he sat at one of the small workstations and fiddle with wiring or nuts and bolts on some doodad or another. The questions always seemed outlandish - as if there would ever be a situation where knowing the variable speed settings of a shuttle’s fuel pump ratio off the top of your head would need to come in handy. Still Monty worked best if his hands were busy, his mind engaged, and his mouth running. And if it helped move the mountain of work that had accumulated over the last five miserable years, then who was she to stop him. 

There was an order to the chaos of Monty’s life, Deidra supposed. 

Question asked. A swig from a whiskey bottle. Joint paper rolled. A wingnut washer tightened. Answer given. 

But addiction went hand-in-hand with boredom which went hand-in-hand with genius. 

Question asked. A Black Market Hypospray bought. A line of code rewritten. Glass tumbler filled. Answer given. 

And while Monty’s left hand was busy fixing, the right was destroying himself. 

Question asked **.** InfraLaser soldering iron sponged and stored. Credits slipped to a dealer in the alley for something a little harder than the previous order. A flask of scotch left open. Wrong answer given. 

In hindsight the rejection to his application should’ve set her more on edge then she’d prepared herself to be. And if it hadn’t been for some intuition or fate or some kind of 5th dimensional intervention, he’d likely would’ve bled out on her workshop floor, bottles splayed, drugs in the open, and that InfraLaser soldering iron slicing open a seven centimeter gash on his forearm. 

Deidra had hoped to never be in a hospital waiting area ever again. It was funny how the smells and sounds lined up identically to years previous when she’d been taken in for rehabilitation: calls for doctors over the PA, piss and vomit mixed with false-minty absorbent pellets, babies crying at odd intervals, stale replicator food, the squeaking of specially designed healthcare worker shoes. 

“I’m looking for Montgomery Scott.” 

Deidra’s head shot up to see young woman, a teenager really, remarkably calmly asking the receptionist for information. She handed over an ID card, something a bit old fashioned these days with chips becoming so easy and popular. The receptionist said something back forcing the girl to move her hands in a manner that made Deidra pause. _Was that sign language?_

Clara. 

It’d been a story told over a shared bottle of brandy after Deidra’s girlfriend had dumped her for an accountant in Aberdeen. Monty had regaled her with the time he and his friend and little sister had a competition to build a device to skip rocks in a pond near the town he’d grown up in. _Fish and me had le’her win, mind. But if I’m being honest, with a bit of tweaking, she’d’ov won anyway. Course she had access to things we didn’t, namely tha’ real stretchy med tubing._ Deidra had asked how a little girl would ever get ahold of something like that. Monty had taken an extra shot of brandy before answering, _she grew up sick_. 

He then told her about Clara’s illness and how it took her hearing, about making rechargeable dilithium batteries for her hearing aids, about knowing some key signs in BSL, and about missing her terribly. _Resilient and brilliant, tha’ one. Weren’t nothing thrown at her she couldn’t take in stride._ And maybe it was the booze or just the softness in his eyes at fond memories but Deidra had leaned in to kiss him. He’d stopped her saying he wasn’t what she needed then and certainly not what she wanted. He’d been right. And one look at how Clara commanded the conversation with the receptionist told Deidra he’d been right about her too: resilient and brilliant. 

She just hoped that didn’t waver when faced with her brother’s condition. 

The receptionist pointed to the waiting area, specifically at Deidra. Clara didn’t hesitate to make her way over and sit down in the harsh, low-backed, plastic chair next to her. 

“You brought him in?” Her vocal tone was remarkable for having been Deaf most of her life. Her hands signed with her words. 

Deidra nodded. 

“Wha’ happened?” 

“It was an accident with a soldering iron.” 

The settling of Clara’s jaw was like watching Medusa turn a man to marble. Clara sighed deeply, resolutely. “I see.” She tapped her fingers on the armrest of the chair. “Was he drinking?” 

Deidra nodded slowly. 

“Was he high?”

Another nod. 

“Naw' much of an accident then.” She folded her arms over her chest and sat back. “S’pose it’s naw' too far from his pat’ern though. Ya know tha’ scar on his left hand? That’s from when he thought two consecutive all nighters mixed well with a hacksaw.” She deepened her frown. “When they let him have visitors I’m gonna go first. Ya can play the good girlfriend an’ comfort him la’er.” 

“I’m not his girlfriend.” It came out softer than she’d have expected. 

“Then ya should go home. No sense ya being out here wai’ing on him. Naw' when I’ve got words ta have with him.” 

“It was an accident.” 

“He wasn’t workin’ with a clear head,” she snapped back. 

Deidra got the sense there was something deeper to Clara’s foul mood. But she felt it was far from her place to ask. Who was she to this family anyway? 

Without a word she gathered her coat and stood, checking her pockets for her comm and gloves. “Nice meeting you,” she offered. 

Clara looked straight ahead and offered no reply back until after Deidra had turned for the door, tossing over her shoulder at her, “Make him clean up his own mess whenev’r he gehs back.” She went back to staring down the wall until a nurse instructed her to follow her to Monty’s room. 

The story she’d received on her comm was that Monty had been found bleeding from a deep wound in his arm, had multiple narcotics in his system, and a blood-alcohol level in the non-medically termed Oh Shit range. Deidra had said it had been an accident. But the lack of response to her earlier message about how the Starfleet interview had gone had her suspicions running high. 

Monty’s breathing slowly changed as he woke up. He looked so unlike the big brother she’d known growing up and it wasn’t just the sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Ginger hair hid beneath dark dye. Hands held scars from additional years of work, burns from forgotten lit joints. His usually dirty fingernails were jagged from nervous picking, biting. 

“Clara?” he asked as his eyes opened. The haze over them made her think of Jenny, a fellow patient at the hospital she’d nearly been raised in. 

Jenny had died waiting for the treatment Clara eventually got. 

“Hi, Monty.” 

“Wha’ are ya doin’ here?” 

“Turns out ya had me listed as yer emergency contact.” 

He looked confused by that, as if he didn’t remember putting down her information or that she’d had to have been contacted at all. 

His eyes scanned the room, that glassiness receding. He took in the heart monitor and the thin gown and the thick gauze on his arm between his wrist and elbow. “Wha’ happened?” 

“Tha’s wha’ I wanna know.” 

There was an edge in her voice Monty was unfamiliar with.

It might have been the first time in half a decade they’d shared the same physical space, but Monty had never lost contact with his sister. Not a word to his mum in that time, but Clara… Calls, messages, video conversations done entirely in BSL where he’d helped her with homework and she’d fill him in on what her friends were doing. She wanted to be a lawyer. Even at fifteen, Monty fully believed her capable of it. 

“InfraLaser soldering iron.” 

Monty looked at the bandage on his arm. “Must’ve slipped.” 

“Yeah,” Clara agreed, but her hands were still and her lips thin. She clearly wasn’t buying it. “Funny thing is, I know for a fact ya use an IL iron because it provides the strongest possible con’inuous stream while still having multiple safety redun’ancies built in. I also know those redundancies include tac’ically calibra’ed sensors tha’ instantly shut off the beam if a single cell of skin is detected.” She barely contained the raw emotion threatening to crash over her as she opened her mouth to ask, “So how di’ a seven centime’er gash happen?” 

Monty swallowed; there was bile sharp on his tongue but from what he wasn’t sure. “I turned the safe’ies off,” he admitted. 

Clara’s face of stone was beginning to crack. Her hypothesis, her suspicion, was dangerously close to the surface. “Why?” 

“Was doin’ precision work. How I was holdin’ it,” Monty tried to mime the action but his arm could only raise so far, “the beam kept swi’ching off. Must’ve slipped an’,” he pointed to his arm. 

Clara felt the burning of salt in her eyes. He was lying. “Bullshite.” 

He lifted his head some, eyes full of confusion and hurt. But some things had to sting for them to stick. 

“Clara.” 

“Bull. Shite, Monty.” 

“Clara, I-”

“You never messaged me back after yer interview. So ya know what I think happened? I think you got rejected by Starfleet, goh drunk, goh fucked up, and then when those didn’t solve anything, ya deci’ed…” she faltered, lips quivering, eyes watering now, “you deci’ed to kill yerself.” 

Monty was silent, eyes wide, mouth agape. But silent. He wasn’t denying the accusation and that hurt far worse than she’d ever imagined. 

“Monty?” 

She could see tears coming to his eyes, see them rimmed in red and shiny as they welled up. But still he was silent. 

“Tell me I’m wrong, Monty.” 

His heart was beating faster on the monitor. 

“Tell me I’m wrong!” 

Her tears were falling and she wasn’t sure when it had happened. But they went resolutely ignored as she watched him struggle, mouth opening and closing around words never spoken. And then hoarse, cracked, broken in a way he couldn’t fix, “I cannae.” 

Her feet moved of their own volition and she was there, hugging him so tightly as if it would somehow keep him together. His tears were wet on her hair as they slid down the strands, landing cold on her cheek. “Oh God, Clara, I… I.” 

“I know, Monty.” 

“I’m so lost,” and it was raw and riddled with fear and doubt and in that moment the image of her brilliant bright brother seeped out with her own tears, staining the hospital gown at his shoulder. “I donnae know wha ta do next. I donnae… I can’t…” 

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” She held tighter. “We can geh ya help, Monty. Geh ya clean, geh ya bet’er. It’ll be okay, Monty.” 

But he couldn’t see how that would ever be true.

**2258.09.23**

His duffel was packed and it still made him sad to see his whole life bundled up in a single bag. 

Mira had called earlier wishing him luck, saying goodbye. He’d been surprised she’d called at all, all things considered. She’d said she was planning to leave Starfleet at the end of her program, that this incident, and events surrounding it, had left her feeling uneasy, as if there were things crawling in the woodwork at the Academy and all its affiliates. He didn’t blame her nor didn’t think her wrong. But he was sad to hear her go. 

“Next time you’re in San Fran, look me up,” she’d extended. 

But he knew he wouldn’t be back for a long time, maybe even ever. Archer had left that portion all purposely blank when handing out his punishment. 

‘You’re being sent to Delta Vega to complete a study under the direction of Lt. Keenser.’ That was it. He hadn’t been told what kind of study, duration, anything. But Archer had been kind enough to offer one reassurance: you’re not expelled from Starfleet. 

Silver lining, he supposed. 

Bag packed, coat thrown over his arm along with a stocking cap and warm gloves - he knew the atmosphere of Delta Vega and a beach it was not - he left his temporary quarters, closing the door on the room that had condemned him, home-made transporter long ago confiscated. 

“He can’t stay here, ya know.” 

Monty closed his eyes, hands running the towel over his hair harder to block out the argument happening outside the bathroom door. 

“I cannae kick him out, Cerie. He’s mah son.” 

“I’m not asking you to.” 

Monty pulled on the borrowed shirt from his father and tried not to cringe as the argument grew louder.

He hadn’t wanted to interrupt his da’s life. But the truth was he’d shown up unannounced, soaking wet, and abandoned - kicked out and with no other place to go - and he _was_ an interruption.

He’d asked if he could at least crash on the couch. Rory had hesitated but in the end, his father wasn’t going to let leave him in the cold. Though not much went above and beyond the necessities. And as far as priorities went, the young, attractive lab assistant at his work - and one of many reasons for his parents divorce - was further up the list. 

“Rory,” Cerie sighed. “We had our whole life planned.” 

“This is jus’ a set back, luv. We’ll move in together once he’s done with school. He’s only goh the semester left.” 

A set back. Second priority. A backseat to the lab assistant, to Clara’s illness, to his mother’s frustration.

 _Ya brough’ this on yeurself, ya know_ . The feeling was overwhelming, aching. It tightened in his chest and made his lungs expel all their air. _It’s yer fault. It’s yer fault ye’re all alone._

Scotty’s steps slowed as he approached his scheduled shuttle and saw Vanessa standing there, arms crossed, hips back against the starboard bow, casual, as if this wasn’t the end of the world. 

_S’pose fer her it ain’t._

“Relax,” she began as he drew hesitantly closer, accent back to her vaguely South American pretense. “I’m actually here to congratulate you.”

“Wha’? Fer fuckin’ up mah own life withou’ yer help?” He set down his bag. “Aye, I’m good at tha’.” 

Vanessa kicked off the ship and stood straight, hands going to her jacket pockets. Scotty wondered briefly if there was a Phaser in one. “I’m impressed.” She took a step closer. “If it _had_ worked…” her voice quieted, accent turning British, “I’m impressed. Brilliant solution.” 

“Bu’ it dinnae work.” 

Vanessa shrugged a shoulder. “Was it really such a failure?” 

He glared at her. 

“Honestly, Scotty,” she went on whispering. “Was it? You’re here still. My threats are useless. You did you’re own damage meaning you have control. And in any case, my employer has moved on to bigger fish.” She looked over his shoulder, scanning the area, double checking its emptiness. Workers milled on unsuspecting, ships receiving jaunty little repairs. She’d miss this if she were honest. 

Good thing she was never honest. 

Well, almost never. 

“Clara had an appointment today,” she announced, tone still hushed. “You’ll be pleased to know the doctors are astounded at her improving condition.” 

He nodded once, hard, as much of a thanks as she was going to get. Really it was more than she deserved. It put a knot in her gut though, one she wished she could untie. Maybe that’s what made her try, “I’m not the villain in this, Scotty. I know it’ll be easier to see it that way. But really I was just doing my job.” 

“Then ya know why I would never agree ta work fer yer employer.” 

“I wouldn’t say never.” 

“An’ wha’ do ya think could possibly convince me?” 

She nodded over his shoulder. “Your pilot is coming.” In the half second he glanced back she reached up and hugged him, pulling him close the way friends would to say goodbye. In his now close ear she whispered the only answer to his question, “Fish misses you.” 

She pulled back and walked away in the same motion, leaving him no time to ask for clarification, for anything more than she’d given. His pilot was there. He was to be flown to Delta Vega. And she was to report back to London. 

It was over. 

For now.

**2258.09.24**

It had taken a whole day to fly out to Delta Vega and another six hours to be shuttled to the base. Then after nearly an hour of trying to get someone to open the door, balls freezing the entire time mind, a stumpy reptilian alien that could only be Roylan answered the door. 

“Aye, yes, I’m lookin’ fer Lt. Keenser.” 

The alien blinked, protruding eyes flicking up and down as if assessing the nearly frozen man before him. Without much preamble the Roylan ran off, leaving an icicle-sporting Scotty ready to punch a wall. He was _cold_ dammit. And hungry. And kicked out of the world he’d fought tooth and nail to be in and… 

The Roylan returned with a cup of hot coffee, offering it to Scotty. He took it gratefully, sipping down the liquid, scalding be damned. “Thank ya, lad. Now, Lt. Keenser?” 

“Me,” the alien answered. 

“You… yer Lt. Keenser?” 

Keenser nodded. 

“Oh, well... “ he took another sip of coffee. “Um. thanks.” He pointed to the mug. “Good stuff. Oh, uh, speakin’ ov stuff, where should I put mine?” 

The Roylan dashed off again and Scotty took his cue to follow. 

“This will be your room here. Your roommate will arrive soon,” the student warden explained. Monty nodded, setting his bags down on one of the two single beds in the university dorm. He’d gotten Clara to send him his sheets from his bed back home. _No, naw' home, Monty_. It never would be, never again. 

“We’re having a bit of a meet-and-greet,” the warden went on, bit robotically. “End of the corridor at 6. Let me know if you need help with anything.” He left. 

Monty began unpacking his clothes, lining his tools on the small desk in the corner nearest his bed. It didn’t take long to set up his area. He kept glancing over at the empty side of the dorm room, back into the corridor. He smiled at anyone who happened to get caught in his looking. Some smiled back. 

But no one ever came. 

“Sorry, Montgomery,” the student warden began, checking his holopadd. “Looks like you’ll have the place to yourself.” 

Monty tried not to look too disappointed. _Prob’ly fer the best. Yer naw' the easiest ta share a room with, aye._

It didn’t take long to unpack his stuff. Scotty, glanced around to see if Keenser had stuck close by. He followed the sound of tools working metal and found where the Roylan had set up some equipment on a makeshift workbench in what appeared to be the main work room. 

The area was large compared to the other spaces he’d seen, filled to the brim with Federation-approved equipment. The lighting was dim, green toned the way LEDx offcasts often were. From the set up Scotty gathered their operation to be some kind of research and observation. Observation of what was yet to be determined, although he couldn’t possibly imagine much life surviving on this desolate rock. 

“Donnae s’pose ya got any food?” he inquired, absently picking up a piece of something broken and tightening a wing nut. 

Keenser pointed to a silvery-wrapped packet of protein nibs.

 _Great. Just fuckin’ great._ He reached for them and popped a handful in his mouth. _Only PN’s ta nibble, a roommate tha’ doesn’t much talk. Least there’s coffee._

The coffee ran out ten days later. 

**2258.10.18**

He walked the two kilometer perimeter as quickly as he could, arms wrapped around him, teeth chattering. He’d lost feeling in his toes around the first marker. Three more to go. So far all stations were clear, devoid of anything worth reporting in the daily log. 

His eyes scanned the snowy drifts, shifting in the relentless wind that ripped over the icy surface. Pale blue-grey sky touched the harsh arctic mountains in the distance. Who knew what kind of creatures lived in those caves? Keenser had mentioned to keep an eye out for… something. He wasn’t sure the name the little alien had muttered. But the motion for a pinching claw had accompanied it so Scotty decided it’d be best to keep his eyes open. Thankfully the googles no longer fogged up, turning the whole vacant expanse white. 

“Mr. Scott. Why don’t you share with us your motivation for using Vulcinidone?”

He shrugged, leaning further in his seat, resolutely avoiding eye contact with Dr. Salvana and the rest of the group circled around the clinic meeting room. St. Martha’s had been designed with these types of recovery meetings in mind. It showed in the calming paint color, soft carpeting, the bright one-way windows that offered sunlight without sacrificing privacy. Things that an outsider, the one submitting the patient, would nod and find good and helpful. But to him-

He scratched at his upper arm, the itch on the verge of becoming overwhelming. “I dunno.” 

Dr. Salvana nodded, unfazed. “When did you have the most urge to use?” 

Scotty scratched at his arm harder. “When I was bored.” 

“Boredom. And what was it about boredom that made you want to get high?” 

A shrug. More scratching. He wasn’t sure which was more irritating. 

“Okay. Why don’t you think about it. Maybe you can share at the next meeting. Lana, do you want-”

“Boredom.” He let slip a wry chuckle, eyes narrowing. “Mah wee granny used ta say boredom was the only true swear. I agree, doc. Boredom, see, is this… endless stark white... _expanse_. A blinding white void pressed righ’ up against yer face. A wall tha’ stretches in every single direc’ion with no shadows or corners to relieve the… pressure. Boredom is so fuckin’ present, so envelopin’, so all consumin’!” He wiped viciously at the blood now dripping down his scratched-raw arm. He stared at it, not bothering to look at Dr. Salvana or the rest of the group, eyes trained on the drop of growing red on his pallid arm. “Ya wanna know why I shot up when bored? Because then at least tha’ bloody fuckin’ wall would have some color.”

Marker four showed no signs of activity. Nothing was out there. 

**2258.11.09**

The heat had gone out early that morning.

He’d woken too soon from sleep, breath a noticeable cloud in front of him. Pulling the blankets around his shoulders he wandered out to the main room, eyeing the equipment for signs of damage from the cold. Keenser was already at the other end, dressed in his outdoor gear though not sporting any snow so Scotty assumed he had it on only for warmth. 

“Heat’s out,” he commented, kneeling next to the Roylan who was working the bolts from the main maintenance panel.

Keenser nodded in agreement of the obvious assessment. “Checking,” he grunted, removing the last of the bolts. Scotty took hold of the panel and moved it to the side, the ease of their conjoined working coming naturally from weeks of forced togetherness. 

Keenser crawled into the shaft to examine the central heating system. Scotty took the moment to continue observing the research equipment. No alarms had gone off but some readings were starting to look worrisome. 

The Roylan popped back out clutching a blackened part in his small hand. “Broken.” He handed it off to Scotty who examined it closer. 

“Burnt up more like,” he added, frowning deeply as it occurred to him that the part in his hand was the Keubert coil. The heat wasn’t just out, it was _down_. “Donnea suppose we have a spare?” 

Keenser just blinked. 

“Right. I’ll take tha’ as a no.” 

So how to fake a Keubert coil? It’s function was simple: it used dilithium protoplasm and vibrated it at a frequency that produced consistent heat without radioactive byproducts. Dilithum protoplasm wasn’t too hard to find; they had enough equipment in the main bay that ran off dilithum, so retrieving the protoplasm wasn’t the challenge. The vibration was. The coil acted a bit like a natural tuning fork and could be struck by an electrical pin-spark to initiate vibration. Finding the right “note” would be tricky. He knew the frequency - 127 Hz - but finding something that could strike the coil at that frequency consistently and constantly… 

“We have any ov those freq-trans from tha’-”

But Keenser had already darted off to grab them, following Scotty’s train of thought. It was going to be difficult. But if they could find a material that produced a spark at the right magnitude to vibrate a rod at 127 Hz they could build up a chamber and fill it with Dilithium protoplasm. It’d act more like a fireplace than a heating system, but until a repair could be transported in, it’d do just fine. 

...

They’d been at it for nine hours. 

Alarms started going off six hours ago, alerting them to their equipment dropping below range. They’d tried to find anything to burn for heat but Starfleet didn’t exactly encourage fires - what with most of their work being in outer space and oxygen being so regulated. They’d taken turns fetching some sticks from outside, but after the third trip they’d realized opening the door was letting out more heat than their finds could generate. 

They bundled up in spare gear, extra blankets. But the layers could only do so much to insulate their rapidly cooling bodies. 

Scotty’s teeth started chattering five hours ago. 

Keenser had shut down almost two hours ago, the Roylan having a lower body temperature - which allowed him to withstand cold temperatures easier - but also a reptilian cold-blooded approach - so once his core dropped too low he couldn’t much move. 

Scotty tried igniting a boron spark in a controlled oxygen atmosphere, changing the stoichiometics accordingly. But nothing hit the coil at the needed Hz level. 

His hands were sheet white, knuckles far more blue than this morning. And they were shaking. 

God, how they were shaking. Trembling with cold, with fear they’d never feel warmth again. That the nails would turn black and fall out. 

He breathed on them, though even his breath felt cooler. 

They didn’t stop shaking. 

_Stop it. Stop shaking!_

It was night. The lights were dimmed in the hall except by the nurses’ station and off in his room save for the lamp that sat clipped to the edge of his food tray. He had a comm flayed open on the surface, all the tiny parts and pieces lined over to the right while he worked on the main PLC board. It was one of the nurse’s comm’s or their kids’; he couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. It was something to fix, something for his mind to focus on. Something other than the siren call of wanting to use again. An itch that demanded scratching. 

It was delicate work, this bit. He’d been given tweezers by Samantha, a tall, half-Andorian nurse who was kinder than she let on at first. ‘She’s lacking some bedside manner,’ another nurse had said by way of apology for Samantha’s gruff demeanor. But Monty hadn’t minded really. Given his druthers he’d take a brooding realist over a misty-eyed optimist anyday. 

His hand was shaking horribly, a side effect of treatment made worse by withdrawals. He’d pushed through it for the first part, taking apart the needed pieces to reach the comm’s center. But now, now came the fiddly bit and he just didn’t have the motor control. 

He took a deep breath, tried to get his hand to steady. 

The washer fell from the tweezers. 

He cursed, redirecting his efforts to fish the tiny part from the opened comm. But it wasn’t much use. Every time he even got close the shaking was too bad for him to grab it. 

“Stop shaking,” he ordered his disobedient hand. 

It didn’t stop. 

“Stop. Shaking.” 

He tried to steady his wrist, stabilize it with his other hand - it didn’t have nearly the same amount of tremor. But it still shook and his hand still shook and the washer was getting deeper in the guts of the comm. 

“Please stop shaking,” he begged his hands. His hands. His trustiest tools, his livelihood. And they were betraying him. 

The washer went too deep. Slipping into the unknown of the back of the comm.

He growled, shoving the damn comm and its fucking little pieces, sweeping them off of the tray and clattering to the floor. “I SAID STOP SHAKING!”

His eyes stung and tears fell before he could even register they were there. He was sobbing, hands useless and him useless and sobbing and aching and-

Arms surrounded him, pulling him close while he choked on his own pathetic sobs. 

“I know, I know,” Samantha encouraged gently, a comforting hand stroking his back. “This is the hardest part, Monty.” She ignored the wet on her uniform’s collar from his tears, saliva from a mouth gaping open, desperate for breath between painful gasps for air. “This is the hardest part.” 

“They won’ stop shakin’,” he moaned. 

“Yes they will,” she countered, holding him a little tighter. “Two more weeks. But you have to stick with treatment.” 

He hacked up a cough. She rubbed more at his back. 

This was where they lost so many of them. This spot, this particular point of transition. So many fell backwards, shot up, the V-done mixing with the medication and breaking down the users’ system. This is where she lost her last patient. Where her brother lost his wife. Where her friend lost her lover. 

Where she lost her daughter. 

Too many got lost at this point, the darkest part of the woods. 

“I’m gonna be sick,” Monty announced. 

Samantha reached for the pan, coaxed him through it. 

She let his head rest on her shoulder after, a blue-pink hand ran over his thinning hair, bleachy-buttery roots from V-done and cheap dark dye from covering it up. There were patches of natural ginger hair and she felt a strange sadness that he’d lose so much of it, knowing how rare it had become in humans over the millenia. She made a note to check if the Re-Gen treatments could bring it back. 

He’d all but fallen asleep so she helped him lay down, tucked the covers closer. 

They lost so many at this stage. 

“Don’t give up, Monty. You can’t quit now.”

He watched her leave through eyes heavy and puffy from salty tears. His chest hurt from crying. And his hands. His hands still shook. 

The boron failed. 

Scotty groaned and leaned back, shoulders aching from supporting the weight of so much insulating gear. His feet had gone numb about an hour back. 

He looked over at Keenser who sat as motionless as he had for the past few hours, conserving his life force through a kind of hibernation. He let his head flop to the other side, searching for anything to try next, maybe some PNs to grind up and put in boiling water - the closest thing to coffee they had. 

A furry creature Keenser had called a Tribble sat on a table full of half-finished projects. Scotty hadn’t asked what the hell it was doing here because what were any of them, to be honest. He reached out and touched it, thinking maybe the fur would be warm enough to bring some life back into this shaky hands. By the third stroke the bloody thing was purring. Steadily. 

Using the freq-trans he measured the Hz of the creature. About thirty. Too low. Unless… 

...

It was warmer. Keenser could tell it was warmer. His eyes moved. His fingers twitched. It was definitely warmer. 

He looked up to see his camp companion leaning back in a chair, feet up on a workstation, scarf dangling loosely around his neck, fast asleep. 

But it was certainly warmer. 

He must’ve fixed the heat. 

Keenser slowly stood and stretched his long toes. He climbed up onto one of the steam tanks now running at full capacity. Yes, much warmer. But how had the heat been fixed? Keenser searched, spotting the mess from trying to vibrate the shot coil, the cold cup of drink made by his camp companion. The Tribble was moved. 

He jumped down and curiously strolled to the creature’s new spot. It took a moment but when he realized what it was doing, Keenser did his equivalent of a smile. 

The Tribble was sat on the hot plate used to boil water. The setting was on its lowest. A piece of brass sheeting sat next to the Tribble. The Tribble purred at the warmth from the hot plate, vibrating the loose brass which touched the protruding edge of a coil submerged in a large container of di-lith p-plasm. It was localized, sure. But it was warmer. 

Keenser looked back at this camp companion still sound asleep. He took one of the blankets that had fallen off the man and draped it back over his form. Then he went to notify Starfleet they’d need a new coil. 

**2258.12.15**

There was a black box at the bottom of his bag. It had traveled with him every location since Deidra’s shop. It contained three items: a hypospray, a loading cartridge, and a single dose of Vulcinidone. He’d debated about getting rid of it every time he felt like opening the black box and using up its contents. Each time he decided against both. It remained, a presence in the furthest shadows of his belongings. 

Tonight he took it out. 

It sat there in its box with him staring at it. 

December 15th. It always made an appearance on this day. 

It sat there, not moving, him not moving. A blackhole transfixing him to the point before its singularity. Using would be its Event Horizon. For now it stayed in the box. It stayed in the box and he stared at it. Unmoving. 

The knock on the door to his quarters was surprising. It was very late; Keenser should've been asleep by now - he should’ve been asleep by now too. But he stood automatically at the call of the small little knock from a small hand and opened the door as was expected when one knocked. 

“Wha’?” he asked the little alien. 

Keenser held out a PADD. 

Scotty took it, frowning at the Roylan. But the frown melted into a spark of excitement at what lay on screen. A data dump. The Federation satellite must’ve crossed back into their range giving them the past three months of communications. 

Most were irrelevant now, being nine to ten weeks old. But Scotty frantically searched through the list for anything from Archer, anything about his release from this hellhole. 

Nothing. 

But there was a rather recent one from Clara. 

He handed the PADD back to Keenser, thanking him and shutting the door before scrambling for his own device and calling up the message from his sister. 

“ _Hi Monty,”_ she signed. The recording was a little fuzzy but it was truly wonderful to see her. And see her standing no less, recovered from the affliction Vanessa and her employers had inflicted on her. “ _Been awhile.”_ Captions ran along the bottom of the screen in case he didn’t know any signs. “ _I’m hoping to get this to you before the 15th; I know that starts a hard time for you.”_ She pauses, expression sad. _“As if losing Granny wasn’t enough. Eddie…”_ She trails off. He’s incredibly grateful for it. He saw the words on paper back then. That was the last time he ever wanted to read about Fish’s death. 

“ _Anyway I hope you take care the next few days. Maybe don’t spend all of it locked away pouring yourself into some project. But it’s okay if you do.”_ She smiled on the end. She knew him too well and it showed. _“Love and miss you. Please message me if you are able - not sure your conditions on your research trip.”_

Huh. At least Archer didn’t spread the news of his failings. Or maybe his family hadn’t been contacted at all.. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Clara added, pointing to a new addition on her finger. “ _Maybe you noticed. Not sure with you_. _But_ _Paul proposed. We haven’t set a date but I’m sure you’ll be able to make it.”_

The video was grainy but her could make out a nice ring, modern-looking. It suited Clara. Good. Her life was back on track, still spinning. He hadn’t fucked it up completely. 

_“Bidh mi 'gad fhaicinn.”_ She spoke the last part before her message ended, video freezing on the image of her waving goodbye. 

“ _Beannachd leat_ ,” he replied to the still frame. 

He set the PADD down on his desk. The black box was still next to it. God, he wanted a drink. But there was no alcohol on the premises. He tapped at the closed box lid, stood. Sighed.

He left his room and wandered to where Keenser was still up, scanning through his own messages on top of one of the large steamer tanks. 

“Geh down,” Scotty ordered. “Yer gonna dent the thing.” 

But Keenser didn’t obey, eyes blinking in challenge. Scotty waved him off. “Since we’re up donnae s’pose ya’d want ta have another go at tha’ 3-D chess game, yeah?” 

Keenser blinked again but hopped down eventually. “You. Lose,” he muttered. 

Scotty glared but set up the board anyway. “Donnae geh smar’ with me, wee man. Ya still owe me plenty ‘ov nibs from tha’ fix to the heatin’.” 

“Walk.” 

“Aye, okay. Maybe we’re even after _tha’_ incident. But ya dinnae geh eaten so I cannae see why yer still so upset.” 

Keenser just blinked and made his opening move in the chess game. 

Scotty lost, just as Keenser had teased. But he didn’t mind. Clara had had a point. And while the black box and its pull were still waiting for him when he fell back into bed later that night, they didn’t seem as strong as before. 

**2259.03.12**

Six months. Six months he’d stayed there, waiting every day for Archer to call with his forgiveness, for him to call Scotty back into the fold. But it never came. Six months of protein nibs and a Roylan for company. 

Six. Bloody. Months.

And then salvation knocked on the door and with reverent awe declared, “You are Montgomery Scott.” 

And, shortly after, his Transwarp equation was solved, and he almost drowned. And nearly blew up. And was almost swallowed by a blackhole. 

God, it was good to be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh good, you made it. Hope you didn't hate it. We're getting back into happier territory so hang in there.  
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading on to Chapter 10! There's some fresh cut, farm-to-table, organic Captain Kirk action in it for you. 
> 
> Chapter warnings - family tension/drama (is that really a warning? I don't know. You made it through last chapter [presumably] so this should be a walk in the park)

**Chapter Ten**

**_2248.03.06_ **

Gyroscopic nav regulators were problematic unless one had a properly calibrated workstation to compensate for the device’s naturally unstable core. The back engine room of a Galileo-class cargo shuttle was far from the ideal condition. So to remedy the miscalculations offered by general ship movement and how they exponentially affected nav cores, Scotty had had to build a gravity neutral harness in order to successfully service the ship’s nav regulator. He also had to do it using cheap cargo straps, polyfoam, and cyanoacrylate glue.

“Henri, Scotty, quit messing with whatever you’re working on and get up here!” 

No one could say Captain Holmes was a calm man. Still, Scotty didn’t mind the man’s capricious nature; it kept things interesting. Then again, space itself was often stimulating. The challenges it provided had kept him up into late nights solving problems, fixing things, improving functions of the small cargo shuttle. 

The captain had laughed the first time Scotty suggested rerouting power to the dilithium warp coils through the burner cells to conserve fuel. But after the third burnout before they could reach port, he’d allowed Scotty to try it. Now they used twenty-two percent less fuel per trip and the money saved had gone to a much needed upgraded replicator. (Hello actually tea-tasting tea.) 

“Captain said move,” Lt. Henri Schwartzkopf prodded, slapping an enormous hand onto Scotty’s shoulder and all but dragging him away from his floating workstation.

“But the nav’s almost done running it’s short codes. I need ta-”

“Captain said move.” 

Scotty rolled his eyes and followed the giant Belgian up to the cockpit. 

“We got us a distress signal,” the captain said by way of greeting as they arrived. “Henri, can you man the comm and see if you can’t get us a better lock on that signal?” 

“Yes sir.” 

“And Scotty, I need you to put together a rescue tool kit. Chances are they’re going to need mechanical assistance.” 

“Aye, sir. Any idea wha’ kind of ship we’re talking. Gotta know if we’re in the pliers and drivers range or something more complex like hypercooled-hydraulic torque wrenches.” 

The captain grinned and pointed out the window to a silver speck coming closer. “Pack the big boy tools, Scotty. If the call’s true, we’re about to rescue Starfleet.”

…

Chief Engineer Albrect Miner’s Log

_ Constitution-class Starship NCC-0509 had experienced a full stop around 1700 hours on 2248.03.06. 0900 hours prior to the stop, the dilithium scrubbers encountered an unknown mass as a result of interference from a radioactive star less than two light years away. At the time of passing, certain subroutines had been temporarily switched off to allow the engineering crew a standard maintenance window. The rare combination of non-functioning subroutines, radioactive interference, and a surge from the dilithium chamber, resulted in a full shutdown of the warp drive and stopped NCC-0509 in deep space.  _

_ A distress beacon went out around 1730, and was responded to by a Galileo-class cargo cruiser ID number 8382761. Their engineer, one Montgomery Scott, was able to perform an experimental reboot on the scrubbers and successfully reactivated the warp core.  _

_ Capt. Mallory requested a meeting to discuss vouching for Scott’s admission into Starfleet Academy. After some initial disagreement wherein I voiced concerns about an individual who laxly experiments on equipment with lifeforms aboard, Mallory reassured such practices would be swayed with proper training. Ergo Scott is accompanying us back to Earth where he will be enrolled in the next semester’s courses.  _

Albrect Miner’s Personal Log

_ I hate that kid. _

…

The cafeteria, while usually a bit rambunctious, was in a particularly jovial mood after the ship had begun moving again. The crew of the small cargo ship had been invited to join the captain and her first mate for a meal which had evolved into drinks which had evolved into an arm wrestling match between Henri and any enlisted crew willing to try to beat him. Scotty had started taking bets ten minutes into the ordeal and was up seventy-nine credits, six drinks in, and riding higher than he’d ever imagined. 

He made it. He was in. Capt. Mallory had offered him assistance in applying, well  _ re _ -applying, for academy, and he was fucking thrilled. 

It’d been a hard few years: rehab and relapses, searching for work outside of Starfleet but still off-world, saying goodbye to Deidra. She’d been helpful in getting him into a clinic but there was nothing more she could offer him beyond the shop. He’d wished her luck in finding her own next step. 

But the most difficult part had been saying farewell to Clara. 

She’d been the one to pull strings and get him a spare room in a friend of a friend’s flat. She’d organized interviews for cargo runners and science vessels and passenger ships. She’d picked him up and dusted him off after every rejection, every crash and burn, every mistake. And when he finally was able to get a job, he’d had nothing to offer her in return.  _ Monty,  _ she’d started,  _ you fixed my hearing aids when I was six years old, improved them, made the batteries last ages longer than thought possible. You gave me back something I thought was gone forever. We’re square. _

He missed her. He needed to call and tell her the good news. 

Henri laughed, downing another Romulan ale as he slammed his opponent's arm into the table. “Have you no one to challenge me?” he taunted, accent thick and drawled with the booze in his system. 

“Someone message Chips,” a security yeoman encouraged. “If anyone can take him he can.” 

“On his way,” another red shirt replied. “And Dr. Grace is on standby.” 

This got a laugh from the rowdy crew. Scotty began taking everyone’s bets and sidled off for another drink before this “Chips” showed up. Sounded like a real winner that one. 

The bartender handed him another lager and a glass of water - balance it out there, Monty - and with a nod to the man Scotty turned back around to see the crowd had thickened with the release of Gamma shift. The chanting started before he could make his way through the throng of people. “Chips! Chips! Chips!”

Scotty pushed through, drinks in hand, careful not to spill any. He could make out a regulation red shirt and wondered which division of operations required a man named “Chips.” A shove to his right made some foam spill onto his hand. He licked it off without much worry, squeezing through the remainder of the crowd and finally seeing the challenger’s face. 

The drink fell and crashed on the ground, silencing part of the crowd. 

Henri and “Chips” looked up at the sound. “Chips” faltered, allowing Henri to finish him off easily. But the red shirt didn’t care. 

“Goms?” he asked quietly, disbelievingly. 

“Fish.”

…

“Security, huh? Impressive.” 

They were sat on a catwalk over an observation deck, enormous windows before them filled with the vast, expansive beauty of outer space. The soup bubble effect of warp made everything look multi-colored. Stunning really. 

“Going on five years this coming October.” Fish’s voice was so much deeper than what Monty remembered. It felt more clipped too, as if he had a finite number of words to be used for the day. 

“Well that’s a hellova feat, Fish. I’m happy for ya.” 

Fish just nodded. Quiet. Contemplative almost. 

“Something wrong?” 

Fish downed the last of the Romulan Ale he’d brought with him, setting the empty bottle beside him carefully, precisely, a sort of meticulous action that felt wrong on him. “Nothing’s wrong, Goms. Just… well guess I just figured I’d find ya before now is all.” 

“Wha’ da ya mean?” 

Fish sighed, fiddled with the bottle. “I ‘ad an alert put in place for if your name ever popped up in Starfleet’s database. Didn’t show up.” 

Goms pulled his brows together. “So?” 

“So, I dunno. I guess I always figured you’d be… I guess I ‘ad an image of you that was so damn grand, Gommy. I know it’s unrealistic to think it, but I guess I always figured you’d be… a’ead of me.” He spun the neck of the bottle between his fingers. “You were always so smart.” 

“Now wait a minute here, Fish. Are ya saying tha’ ‘cause I just now got inta Starfleet I’m somehow  _ behind _ ya?”

“Goms, listen I-” 

“I’ve been doing good work on tha’ cargo cruiser. I even found a way to reroute power to conserve-”

“Of course you did! That’s what I’m saying! You should’ve been ‘ere right outta school.” 

“Well I failed outta school! And I wasn’t in Starfleet ‘cause I failed their interview!” 

Fish blinked, eyes widening with surprise. “Goms?” 

“Things weren’t exactly easy the past few years, Fish. I’ve messed up and been messed up and I’m sorry if tha’ somehow tarnishes the glowing vision ya had of me. But it’s the truth.” 

Fish felt the heat from the outburst ebbing almost as quickly as it had appeared. But as it faded so did the mask of self confidence that usually covered Monty’s face. He hadn’t known it had been a mask back then, wanting instead to believe so badly that Goms was as bold as he was brilliant. And maybe it hadn’t been as much of a mask in those days but now… 

“I tried ta get ya out.” Monty’s gaze stayed on the stars before them. 

“What?” 

“Of tha’ school. I tried ta get ya out of there. Had everything I needed too, had it in mah hands. But I goh caught stealing it.” 

Fish smiled palely. “You were stealing from the shipyard right outside of town weren’t ya?” 

“It’s no’my fault their security system was so easy ta hack.” 

That earned him a genuine chuckle from Fish. 

“Look,” Monty began, “maybe I’m not the same as when ya left. But I get the ling’ring suspicion you’re not so much the same either.” 

Fish nodded slowly at that, hands absentmindedly going to scratch at the medical bracelet around his wrist, mind slipping to the list a mile long in his medical history file. It hadn’t been as much as a surprise as Fish might’ve once thought. He’d always known there was something a little off about how he saw the world, how he felt it. 

They’d described it as a sort of heightened sensitivity to social interactions. He couldn’t read minds, no matter how much his commander insisted that was the case. No, it was more he could read how people were feeling - a fact that had come in handy more than once when fingers were on Phaser triggers set to something more dangerous than stun. 

But with that heightened sensitivity to emotional output came an undesired side effect: an equally heightened social response. His commander had phrased it as,  _ We don’t call him Chips because he’s and Englishman named Fisher. It’s ‘cause he’s full of air, loaded with salt, and snaps easily.  _

But Goms had been right all the way back when they were lads shooting lasers at hypos full of medicine.  _ You’re emotion smart. You’re so sensitive to it. _ And that was the problem, really. No one else picked up on the subtleties. So when he hit overload on reading people’s shit, it came out in an unparalleled measure, a kind of over expressed, dumbed down, explosion of emotion. People always understood the basics: happy, sad, angry. And for him the basics rarely appeared as the first two.

And while Starfleet may not have been a military organization, its roots were still in the soil of war and buds still bloomed red. Old habits die hard, Fish supposed. He’d seen the remnants of that mentality while working security. And no, he was not the same as when he’d left. Not remotely. 

“I’m not,” he answered, fighting back the memories, edging away from the lightning-strike fear building in his chest. 

“That’s al’right, Fish.” Goms went back to looking out the large windows. “Everything’ll be al’right.” 

Eddie Fisher had never lied to his best friend. Which was why he didn’t reply, electing instead to hand Monty another beer with as hopeful of a smile as he could muster. Goms waved it off, muttering about pushing his limit. Fish would’ve found it odd, the idea of Goms even having a limit to push, but the scar on his wrist, barely visible from the cover of a navy coverall sleeve, suggested that maybe Monty’s penchant for pushing past the set limits had come back to slap him in the face. Maybe that cautious thread that had wound its way into the hazel of his eyes had been stitched in by personal downfall. 

And maybe that was okay. Maybe the mask of self confidence being pulled a little tighter was a necessary evil. Because just maybe it had kept Monty safe, once upon a time. And for that Fish would always be grateful. 

“You’re gonna ‘ate Academy,” Fish started with a grin around the rim of the beer bottle.

“Aye?” 

“Lots of rules.” 

“Lots of rules to break, ya mean.” 

And maybe it was a rehearsed line. But damn did it feel good to hear. “Glad ya made it, Goms.” 

“Glad ya made it too.” 

**2259.03.22**

The dry dock was busy, full of bustling workers all trying to fix Starfleet’s flagship as soon as they possibly could. The higher ups being so pressed for images by every publication on Earth meant they ground crews had to rush to get her back into tip-top shape after her stint out in space fighting Romulans from the future and almost being sucked into a blackhole. Scotty wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he ended up leading the remaining engineering team in limping home the poor silver lady. 

And now he was having to say goodbye. 

It had shocked him for about two seconds that his name hadn’t appeared on the duty roster to fix up the  _ Enterprise _ . But then he’d quickly remembered that Archer’s dog was still missing, his ass was still technically on probation, and his short run at working on this great ship was over. It was time to come back to reality.

“You slacking on the job?” an increasingly familiar voice asked behind him. 

Scotty turned to see Jim Kirk a few paces down the catwalk he currently was using to wish this gorgeous ship farewell. 

“She’s a beautiful ship. Cannae blame me for takin’ in the view. Besides, I’m naw' on the list,” replied, adding a hasty, “sir,” to the end when he recalled the man’s new rank; it seemed the chaos that came of their return had at least one solidified thing: James T. Kirk was to keep his promotion. He thought maybe it was an organization thing, keep it tidy and the like, not to mention honor the man that literally just saved the universe, but Scotty tended to lean toward the realist angle - Jim was good behind a press pulpit. Attractive, smart, young, everything Starfleet wished to project. The problem was… well Jim was also problematic, with a history that made Scotty’s look damn right A+ material. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout the sir stuff. You’ll get lots of practice any time I comm down to Engineering.” 

It took longer than it probably should have for Kirk's words to register in Scotty's mind. And once the meaning hit, it hit hard. "Wait. Wha'? Me?" 

Kirk laughed gently. "Yeah. I mean who's resume could top the guy who invented Transwarp Beaming, saved a ship he'd been on for like two hours from a blackhole, and kept her together enough to get her back home, all within the span of a month." Kirk grinned a little wider, leaning over the railing of the catwalk, forearms braced on the side. "Not to mention you have Spock from the future as a reference."

Oh yeah, there was that. Scotty had significantly tried  _ not _ to think about that since it created a terrifyingly unique pressure to live up to a reputation that wasn't his. Then again, being CE on the Enterprise, temporary as it was, had felt so natural. It was why his goodbyes had taken most of the morning. 

But Scotty wasn't convinced that Starfleet would let him waltz back into rotation, universe saved or not. Making Kirk a captain might have been good for PR, but he very much doubted the man had much sway with crew assignments. And picking Scotty to be his CE wouldn't play well with... well with anyone really. 

"Naw' sure they'll sign off on me bein' on this ship. I'm technically naw' even allowed on the premise." 

Kirk waved him off. "Thing about saving the universe is people are  _ really _ accommodating." He looked up at the ship, taking in the view of her dish being patched up. "Especially when you remind them that you saved it by going against  _ their _ orders." 

Ah. So Kirk was playing the 'guilt their ignorance' card. That was clever. Really clever. It made him wonder for a moment just how far the new captain was willing to push his luck. What all had Kirk asked for while he held this trump card? And would it last once people were done praising him as a hero? 

"Say yes, Scotty." 

Scotty stuffed his hands in his pockets, looked back at the beautiful  _ Enterprise _ . It could be his. He was so close to it... 

But it wasn't right. He was too... damaged. Too fucked up to deserve fulfillment of this dream. He was a recovering addict, he pushed the rules too much too far, he'd let people he cared about get hurt by people he was too blind to see were playing him. He'd been unable to save his best friend. Even if the Federation miraculously did say yes, his flaws were too great, too failing, to let him run such a perfect machine.

"Captain, I-"

"If you're about to make some excuse about not being right for the job," Kirk interrupted, "shut up." He rubbed at his jaw; Scotty could still see some bruising there from the man's fight with the Vulcan... who was his friend? now? God, it had been a weird few weeks. 

Kirk sighed heavily, finally tearing his eyes away from the  _ Enterprise _ . "They're letting me have her. Me. I was on academic probation, nearly kicked out, not even supposed to be on board. I'd cheated a test designed to force failure because that's what I do." He hung his head. "I don't deserve her.”

Kirk looked up at the ship again. Scotty couldn’t help but wonder if maybe a different ship was crossing his mind, one that took his father down with it. 

"I don't believe in no-win scenarios,” Kirk went on. “And I want a crew that thinks the same. I want a crew of grumpy doctors who are that way because they  _ hate _ that people get sick so they do everything they can to make them better. I want a crew of sharp communications directors because knowing what to say is the best weapon in the bay. I want a crew of cocky pilots and self-assured navigators because 'to boldly go' doesn't mean second guessing your course." He looked over to Scotty pinning him with impossibly blue eyes. "I want a chief engineer that tells me what I'm asking for is impossible while in the same breath solving the problem."

Scotty had seen a few of Kirk’s interviews over the last few days, had watched him as he stood up straight, shoulders back, persona of 'captain' taking hold like some puppeteer had pulled the strings. He’d had seen how Kirk could calmly take command of the room, lure people in. This was different though. This was Jim Kirk, genuinely. The speech may be fancy but the core was true. He wanted a crew of rebels, of outcast, of misfits. He wanted to take those who stood out and give them a place to fit in. And Scotty couldn’t say no to that.

“Alrigh’ then. Wha’ do I need ta sign?”

Kirk smiled, slapping a hand to Scotty’s shoulder. “I’ll send the paperwork to your PADD.” He removed his hand and started walking away. 

Scotty went back to watching the workers repairing the  _ Enterprise. _ It made him want to get his hands dirty, to start peeling back damaged hull and charred panels, to crawl around and get dust on his knees and grim in his hair. There were all kinds of nooks and crannies on these Constitution-class ships that one’d have to squeeze into- 

“Wait, Captain, sir!” Scotty yelled, dashing after Kirk. The young man stopped and turned, held tilted at the sudden call of his name. 

“I have a request,” Scotty answered the unasked question. “Well… condition really. See, Keenser, the wee man on Vega, he has to come too. I’m sorry. I know I’m naw' really in a position ta make demands, but if he doesn’t then-”

But Kirk was already laughing. “Absolutely, Scotty. We ain’t leaving anyone behind.” 

**2259.03.30**

The message had popped up on his PADD twenty minutes ago and his heart had been pounding since. It had been vague, a simple one line instruction:  PLEASE COME SEE ME. But dammit if Scotty’s heart wasn’t trying to make a run for it from his chest. 

He sucked in a quick breath as he knocked on the office door, a door he’d once been comfortable approaching. A door that he hadn’t seen since that horrible morning. 

“Enter,” Archer beckoned. 

Scotty closed his eyes for a split second, braced himself. He knew what this was about. There was no way even Captain Kirk could work enough magic to get him on that great silver ship, that lovely piece of machinery. It did bear the name  _ Enterprise, _ after all, and Archer had captained the original. There was no way, universe saved or not, that he was going to be allowed to keep her running. 

“Goh yer message,” Scotty started as he entered. He remained standing since Archer didn’t exactly motion for him to take a seat.

“Yes, we have several things to talk about,” the admiral added, pulling a PADD from his desk drawer and placing it deliberately on his desk. He pulled on an old pair of eyeglasses, settling them down his nose. “Application for Chief Engineer position, Starship, Constitution-Class, NCC-1701,  _ Enterprise _ .” He looked up at Scotty over the lenses. “Your name is here.” 

“Aye, Sir,” Scotty replied, hands fiddling nervously with the sides of his pants where they hung, restless to be doing something. 

“You want to be Chief Engineer of the  _ Enterprise.”  _ It wasn’t so much a question as an affirmation. 

“Aye, Sir,” Scotty answered again. 

Archer fixed him with a very calculating gaze. It made Scotty think of an insect under an electron microscope. “Very well.” Archer sighed. “Take a seat. We have a list of things to discuss.”

Scotty felt an enormous weight settle in his gut. He got the feeling this wasn't going to end in his favor. But he'd waited six months on a frozen wasteland to have this conversation, so he was damn well going to have to suck it up and sit down. 

“Point number one," Archer began, "your current rank as lieutenant prohibits you from this position. However, the Admiralty is on board to promote you to lieutenant commander for your role in saving the crew of the Enterprise. But the CE position requires, at minimum, a commander rank. So I’m curious, Mr. Scott, to hear why you think you deserve the promotion to what the position requires.” 

Deserve? Scotty didn't think he deserved shit. The fact that he was still here at all impressed him. “I don’t, sir.”

Archer gave him a steady look, something assessing though Scotty wasn't sure the criteria. But something must've passed muster because Archer sniffed a little, then, “Very well. Then I propose a compromise. You can operate as the CE, but should your captain become compromised, the position of Second in Command would then fall to the first officer, followed by the next highest ranking - in this case the chief of security - then you.”

“I don’t plan ta captain the ship, sir. Jus’ keep her runnin’.” It was the truth. In all his time spent with Starfleet both on ships and off, the option to be in charge of the whole crew just wasn't on his radar. 

Acher nodded. “That moves us to point two.”

“Is tha’ the dog?”

“That’s point three." Archer looked up, a sharp, stern expression that had Scotty remembering the true tone of this conversation. His days of joking with the man, tossing around concepts and challenges and being viewed as a promising student were over. "Point two," he continued, "your Transwarp Beaming equation.” 

Oh. That.

“While the Federation recognizes the concept as your intellectual property, its solution and therefore repercussions on the very nature of intergalactic travel, belong to your Prime universe counterpart.”

“Is tha’ wha’ we’re callin’ them? Good, ‘so-and-so from the future’ was gettin’ ta be a mouthful.” He hadn't meant it to be so casual sounding. It really was relief at a nomenclature for... them. For this other self that was both him and not him. 

Archer went on, “Simply put Mr. Scott, I don’t trust this power to be solely in your hands, nor quite frankly Jim Kirk’s. So while you will receive due credit for the equation, all transwarp beaming applications henceforth will be the property of Starfleet. Ergo, any instance of applied transwarp beaming will have to be signed off on by, and reported to, Starfleet officials.”

“No more los’ dogs in space withou’ yer no’ice. Goh it.” God, that sharp tongue was going to get him in trouble. He blamed being on that ice rock with a three-word-a-day-is-considered-chatty Roylan. It had gotten him too comfortable with talking out loud. 

But Archer didn't look all that fazed. He'd undoubtedly dealt with his share of smart asses before. And who knows, maybe that casual dynamic they'd once had wasn't completely gone. “Which brings us to point number three.”

Wishful thinking then. 

“I can find the dog," Scotty declared in a rush. He'd been waiting for this moment, this split-second chance to plead his case on this matter. “I can bring him back in a mat’er of days if I devote time ta it. Gettin’ a sneak peak at the answer means I’m pret’y confident I can work backwards, solve it for real this time.”

There was a flash of something on Archer's face. Maybe before the whole debacle, Scotty would've been able to tell just what it was. But the man was clearly uninterested in going back to that level of collegiate familiarity. Scotty was just another member of Starfleet now. 

“Understand, Mr. Scott, my signing off on you being chief engineer is conditional on whether or not I get my dog back. So I’d start on that project if I were you.”

“Aye, sir. Understood. You’ll be reunited with yer hound in no time.” Hopefully. And  _ God _ , he really needed to shut up.  _ Don't make promises ya cannae keep, Monty.  _

“That brings us to my final point.” Archer reached into his desk and pulled out another PADD. It didn’t look Starfleet standard issue, more private sector. The hair rose on the back of Scotty’s neck at the suspicion tugging at him as Archer handed the PADD over the desk. Scotty didn’t have to look at it long to know exactly what was in his hands.

“I haven’t told anyone. Quite frankly I didn’t think it was real. But I’m giving you the chance now to confirm it’s fake.” Archer leaned his ancient elbows on the desk. “Or at the very least, hear your side.” 

Scotty stared at it. The four pages stark white with simple black text. His damnation. Everything before now, all those points Archer had drug out, delayed the inevitable with, it was pointless because of the contents of this four-page medical report from St. Martha's. 

"'I wish I could tell you,'" Archer quoted. "I thought about that line for days after you'd shipped out." Archer reached out to take the PADD back; Scotty gave it with a heavy hand. "I suspected there was something more to the story. So, Mr. Scott, you have the floor." He set the PADD down, wizened eyes pinning Scotty to his chair. "Tell me." 

Scotty ran through the list rapidly. Could he really tell? Was it an option? Clara was safe - and it sounded like Vanessa and her employer didn't seem interested in harming her again, if anything out of fear they'd lose his interest. His career was currently being debated and the very threat leveled against him was sitting on the desk at Archer's elbow. 

"I was being blackmailed," he answered softly. "I... rushed the transwarp experiment to... outmaneuver the ones doing it." 

"And my dog?" 

Scotty sighed deeply. "The dog was my own hubris. I could'ov used anything, but the dog... it was far too temp'in’." He sucked in a surprisingly shaky breath. When had his chest grown so tight? "I needed ta impress ya. Big time. And instead I failed." 

Archer sat back, his fingers lingering on the sides of his hover chair as if they were ready to program the next launch sequence and take him somewhere. Maybe one never gets past that stance of captain. "Find him," he ordered sharply. "Find my dog. And I'll sign off on your application." 

_Wha’?_ _Jus’ like tha’?_

What about all the obstacles that he’d just listed? The rank and his TWB equation. Were they really that negotiable? Was this really within his reach? And what about-

"Wha’ abou’ the report?" 

"What report?" Archer reached forward to his desk, grabbed the PADD and tossed it into the cluttered expanse of his drawer. "It was fake anyway, right?" 

At last, an olive branch. "Righ'." 

Archer sighed heavily, a rare glimpse at the man’s true age. “That’s my ship, Mr. Scott. She may not be the same model and she surely won’t see the same adventures. But the  _ Enterprise _ will always be mine, even if only in name.” He aimed his gaze at Scotty, loading it with every shred of sincerity he could. “Take care of her.” 

Scotty wet his lips. This was it. This was the last moment he had to prove he was worthy of this. “I will, sir. I swear.” 

“I know.” He pointed an arthritic finger. “Find my dog.” 

“Aye, sir.” 

“Good. Dismissed.” 

**2259.04.11**

Clara had been begging him for weeks to come home. “’Yer a hero, Monty,” she’d practically squealed over the holovid projection. “Everyone back home is talkin’ ‘bout it. Plus ya have ta see the place Paul and I bough’. It’s in the country; can ya believe tha’?” 

He’d told himself he’d visit once he had things squared away at Starfleet. He did have to find a dog in the inter-dimensions of the universe - clever thing was hiding in a pocket bit of space behind Jupiter. 

So with the pup returned, his application approved, his promotion in place, and the  _ Enterprise _ ’s reconstruction wrapping up, he was out of excuses for why he couldn’t visit. Other than, of course, ‘the last time I saw you, you were bed-ridden from being poisoned by people trying to manipulate me and I was too blind to see what they were doing.’ 

He packed his bags slowly, glancing at his PADD with every motion in the hope that someone would give him an excuse not to go. The closest he got was a message from Dr. McCoy alerting him he’d yet to get his required physical. “Think I’d rather face Clara than tha’,” he scoffed into the empty space of his temporary quarters. 

He packed up his PADD and zipped up his bags. “If I’m gonna be uncomfortable, I’d rather be fully dressed an’ probe free.” 

…

The property was just right for the couple. They’d moved north, well out of the city and into the quiet hills and low stone walls of the countryside. The chill of April hadn’t quite given way to the approaching summer, and the familiar British rains misted his entire trip from London to Clara and Paul’s place. 

As promised, Clara picked him up from the transport station in the village and proceeded to talk his ear off the entire drive home. She updated him on the wedding plans and filled him in on which of her friends were in the wedding party. Monty let her talk, not stopping her chattering for a moment, least she bring up the topic he was desperate to avoid. It was nice to see her animated, alive in a way she hadn’t been when he’d last seen her. So as much as he wanted to tell her he was sorry, he didn’t want her to know. It’d kill this brightness to her, and that was not something he could muster up the strength to do. 

They pulled up to the house, the long lane providing them privacy from the main road. The house was an average sized cottage, with a summer kitchen off the side and ivy growing along the front walls and stone steps, all complete with a pond to the back and 4.6 acres to call their own. 

“The front garden wall will need repairs, but luckily Paul’s cousins are builders. ‘Course he’s no shortage of those, workin’ fer the city and-” 

“Is tha’ Mum?”

The answer was obvious. Mum was sitting on the front steps with Paul leaning on the rail, conversing. She gave a small wave to where they had stopped coming up the drive. 

Clara's voice was harder than he'd ever heard it. “Aye."

"Ya dinnae-"

"I’m tired of tip-toein’ round the two of you’s feelin’s. I wan’ed ta celebrate mah engagement with mah family, so fer the course of one dinner, I’m afraid yer gonna haf’ta suck it up and be civil. The pair’a ya.”

Monty scoffed. "I'm not sure"..." 

“She told me wha’ happened. Told me ‘bout the fight ya two had tha’ night. About wha’ she did ta Fish.”

Monty's anger subsided as he realized just how much Clara had catered to his dispute with their mother. Ever since that night he'd run away to Edinburgh, to the only other parent he had, she'd treaded carefully, not bringing up Mum, not accusing him of overreacting by cutting her out of his life because of her sending Fish away. But that wasn't the whole story. And while he still couldn't admit the other half to Clara, couldn't stand to relive that horrible memory of fading taillights and freezing rain, Clara deserved to know that wasn’t the whole of it. 

“The fight was ‘bout Fish. But tha’s naw' why I never came back.”

“Monty-”

“I never meant fer ya ta tip-toe ‘round anything, Clara. An’ I owe ya way more than a civil dinner with Mum.”

Silence hung over them. Rain hitting the windows the only sound, a sound he'd grown far more accustomed to attributing to space dust hitting the hull - maybe in defense, something to disassociate from that memory of standing in the rain. 

“Wha’ aren’t ya tellin’ me, Monty.”

He shot his gaze over to her, mouth open in both shock and for want to spill the words on the tip of his tongue.

She gave him a look that'd be condescending on anyone else. "I’m a lawyer; I’m use ta people lyin’ ta me.”

What wasn't he telling her? Oh, God, so many things. That Mum had abandoned him, that Fish might still be alive, that-

“You were sick because ov me,” he blurted. It was the easiest. She needed an answer and that one was the easiest. 

“Wha’?”

“It was… blackmail. I think it’s over but…” he shrugged. "I demanded they make ya bet'er. But that was only one piece so..." 

Clara frowned, lines in her forehead he'd never noticed before. “Le' me guess, the research trip, months of radio silence, tha’ was because someone was blackmailin’ ya?”

“In part.”

“And the other part?”

Monty looked away from her to the water droplets on the window. He told himself they looked like warp trails. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”

Again, only the sound of rain filled the car. It seemed to be picking up; Mum and Paul had gone inside. 

Clara sighed after a long moment. “‘Spose tha’s fair. We all have our secrets.”

The heaviness spoke volumes. It was clear then that he wasn’t the only one dealing in half-truths. He debated for a minute about asking her, giving her the chance to clear her conscious, unburden her soul. But the car was too stifling, too choked up with rain and unspoken secrets. So instead he joked, “If Paul’s knocked ya up-”

“Oh shut it!” Her laughter drowned out the rain. 

Dinner passed without incident. Paul asked him questions about the  _ Enterprise’s _ construction and how many of the stories about their saving the universe were true. Monty exaggerated some details, knowing full well Clara would call him on them. Mum stayed silent until the conversation turned to wedding plans, as if only one of them were allowed to speak at a time. 

"Date's set for next August. You'll be able to make it, right?" Clara asked her brother. 

"I-"

"Monty will be lightyears away by then, dear," Mum cut in. "You can't count on him get'in' the time off-"

"Clara, I'm naw' gonna miss it fer anythin'." He glared at his mum, challenging her to say otherwise. 

It was far from the first time they'd bull headed their opinions, far from the first time that Clara had been caught in the crossfire. 

Paul laughed after a moment, cutting the tension. "Well I'm sure that whole transwarp beaming creation of yours will come in handy. We'll be in the middle of our vows and you'll just shimmer on in, huh?" 

Clara chuckled, taking Paul's hand. Monty smiled, eyes still locked on his mother's. "That'd be a sight, now wouldn't it." 

Mum maintain eye contact a breath longer. Then, "Indeed." She sipped at her wine, eyes dropping. And Monty got the sense he'd won something. 

After dinner Monty made his way outside. It was quiet, save for the croaking of frogs and wind rattling leaves. The occasional cricket joined the mix. He watched the tall grass bending and swaying in the breeze; it reminded him of those bittersweet memories of Panerus. 

The squeal of the old wooden front door opening snapped his attention back towards the house. 

“I love how quiet it is out here,” Geri commented, pulling the light-weight jumper around her shoulders.

Monty hummed a little, resting his hands on his knees, eyes refocused on the tall grass, heavy with rain now passed. “‘Spose I’m used ta engines.”

Geri hummed. “Ya always did like a bit’ov white noise. Even as a wee bairn. Could never geh ya ta sleep withou’ a fan or somethin’ on.” She shrugged, visible only in his peripheral. “Guess I assumed ya’d event’ly grow outta tha’.” She paused, pulling in a deep breath that she let out slowly. "I assumed a lot of things abou’ ya, Monty.”

That caught his attention. He looked up at her, brow raised. She only motioned for the seat beside him on the stairs. He nodded, allowing her the space. She sat heavily, body older than he remembered it.

“It’s lost some of its red," she commented, reaching for his hair but stopping halfway. "Makes ya look like yer da’.”

“Donnae be insulting.”

“I’m naw'. He was a handsome man. It’s why I wasn’t the last to fall fer him.” Her fingers twitched, something in the action he recognized as reflexively looking for a cigarette between them. He'd known she'd smoked as a teen, before the habit was banned world-wide. Maybe his red hair wasn't the only thing he'd inherited. 

"Do ya really think ya'll make it back fer Clara's weddin'?"

Monty suddenly felt like getting a drink. And that crave for a smoke hadn't lifted much. "I'm gonna try mah best. Captain Kirk is pretty lax. I'm sure I could ask fer the time off, maybe put in some extra hours leadin' up ta it ta make up fer mah absence." 

Geri nodded, tugging on her jumper again. "Sounds like ya have a plan then." 

"I'm naw' the same free-wheelin' lad I was fifteen years ago, Mum. ‘Case ya haven't no'iced. I'm slot'ed ta be Chief Engineer of Starfleet's flagship. I saved the crew from a black hole fer Christ's sake! And ya, ya cannae even say yer proud of me!" 

"Och, I am proud of ya, Monty!" 

"Would it kill ya ta say so now an’ then?" He glared at her, daring her to back up her statement, prove her point.

She didn't say a word. 

Monty nodded. "I thought so." He stood up, aiming to go back inside, but Mum's next sentence stopped him dead in his tracks. 

“You deserved better from me.” 

Monty didn't turn around. 

“I know ya cannea ya ever forgive me fer Fish-”

“You left me in the rain, Mum! In the rain! Ya really think tha’ Fish was the only reason I nev’r came back? Ya  _ abandoned _ me." He shook his head, not daring to face her. “After he died, I realized I could fergive ya fer tha’. In time, mind.” He scrubbed a frustrated hand down his face. “An’ then ya said ya came back. But, Mum… I stood there fer ten, fifteen minutes-”

"I know, Monty. I know ‘cause I didn't make it 100 meters. I sat at a stop ligh’, Jus’  _ frozen _ . I knew I needed to go, to get back home ta Clara. But I couldn't; I couldn't leave ya." 

She sniffed and even without looking at her Monty knew she was crying. Her hands were clasped together tightly, a prayer. 

"I wen’ back," she repeated. "An’ when I didn’t see ya standin’ there like I stupidly though’ ya’d be, I felt mah heart break. An’ instead of reachin’ out ta ya and givin’ ya the comfort and care ya needed, I decided tha’ heartbeak, tha’ pain, was penance. I decided I dinnae deserved ta be yer mother, Monty, so I gave it up.” Another sniff. "An' if I'm bein' honest, I gave up 'long time before tha'." 

Monty sighed, taking his spot next to her and politely not mentioning anything as she dabbed at her eyes. 

“Yer gran once accused me of lovin’ Clara more.” 

“Mum.”

“It wasn’t more, Monty. Please, know tha. It was never  _ more _ . Jus’ Clara was easier. I knew her, understood her. An’ yer gran was so good with ya, I jus’... let her take over with ya. It was easier tha’ way.” 

“I dinnae exactly make it simple, I ‘spose. Bit ov a handful with the rule breakin’ and skippin’ school, and-” 

“You weren’t difficult because you broke the rules or misbehaved now and then. You…” she took in a shaky breath, water rimming her eyes. “Ya looked like yer da’ and had yer Gran’s mind, an’... dammit, Monty, I didn’t know how to love someone made of the things tha’ had made me miserable.” 

She smiled on the end, something so broken and sorrowful it belied the very nature of the action. She went on, hands still clasped together, white-knuckle tight.  “I’ve missed so much ov yer life. An’ wha’ I’m askin’,  _ selfishly _ askin’, is fer ya ta give me a chance to try again.” 

There was a part of him that wanted to turn his back and leave, abandon her and her request the same way she had him that night all those years ago. But there was a memory that was haunting him more, that of Spock beating up Kirk after the latter had egged him on, taunting him about the loss of his mother.

How would he feel upon the news of his mum’s death? 

And he realized then that he wanted to miss her with the same passion, same vigor, as Spock had his own mother. He wanted there to be something to feel he’d lost.

_ You’re not too late _ , that very Fish sounding voice in his head reminded. 

So with a long sigh and a heavy look over to his mum sitting next to him, he nodded. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the end. Thanks for reading this far. Enjoy some loose ends tied up. 
> 
> Chapter warnings - implied minor character death

**Chapter Eleven**

**_2252.04.21_ **

“So, there I am, trying ta get mah bloody coefficient to reflect a positive once multiplied by the variable, I’ve goh mah PADD in one hand, empty cuppa in the other, and it hits me, wha’ I thought was a subtraction operator is actually mah missing negative quantity.” Scotty shook his head, laughing at himself. “Tells ya just how much sleep I’ve been missing.” 

The holographic projection of Fish huffing a laugh skips out for a moment before returning, the reception in whatever far reach of space suffering from its fair bit of distance out from a Federation relay. 

“Not as bad as the time you mistook a spanner for a socket wrench.” 

“Tha’ was one time and I was drunk.” 

“Ya don’t get drunk.” 

“Tipsy then. And maybe a wee bit tired as well.” 

“Academy’ll do that to you.” 

Monty grinned but the smile faded after a beat. “I take it tha’ static is indication ya won’t be able ta make graduation, huh?” 

Fish frowned. “‘Fraid not.” 

Monty nodded understandingly, pushing down the unexpected pain at his best mate’s absence. “Well,” he started, reaching for his personal PADD, “tha’ let’er of recommendation was so glowing I had ta check it for nanoLEDxs.” 

A genuine laugh escaped Fish; he relished the sensation of feeling that sincere emotion. They were so rare these days. “Couldn’t think of a person better deserving of it.” 

“Och, come off it.” 

“I mean it though. Captain Pike was genuinely interested too. I think ‘e likes new recruits with a little rebellion in them.” He leaned in. “Reminds them of ‘imself, but you didn’t ‘ear that from me.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

Fish grinned, removing his thin-framed glasses and cleaning the sleek lenses before tucking them back on. “Your folks coming to graduation?” 

“Clara’s gonna try ta make it.” 

“Yer mum?” 

Scotty shrugged. Fish didn’t know that particular story, only that it was part of the portion of Goms’ life he didn’t like to talk about. Fish understood that. Some things are too painful for words. 

“Maybe we can meet up at some space station,” Monty offered. “Surely we’ll pass each other in route one way or another.” 

But Fish remained quiet. He cleaned his glasses again. 

“Wha’s wrong?” 

Fish sighed deeply, settling his lenses on his face. “I’ve been transferred, Gommy.” 

“Transferred? Ta where?” 

“Would ya believe me if I said Oklahoma?” 

Goms gave look that clearly said no. 

Fish sighed. “Starfleet Intelligence. And I cannot say more than that.” 

Goms’ brows narrowed in puzzlement. “Ya mean, spy stuff?” 

“Not exactly, no.” 

“Well then-”

“Goms, I can’t talk about it!” 

Fish could feel the pain that slid over Scotty’s face. His voice had been too loud, too forceful.  _ Anger is simple. It can dissipate quickly _ . _ I am capable of controlling my emotions. _

“I’m sorry, Gommy.” 

“It’s alrigh’.” Scotty checked the time in the corner of the screen and frowned. “Listen, it’s get’ing late and I’ve got loads to finish up for mah last exam tomorrow and-”

“Gommy.” 

“Aye?” 

Fish bowed his head, hating that his friend was trying to run away, run away from him. That wasn’t right and he needed to fix it. Pity. Monty was usually the one to fix things; he was so much better at it anyway. “‘Ave Clara put me on screen, eh. I can watch graduation that way.” 

Goms smiled and nodded, saying he’d tell her to do just that. 

“Good luck with your exam tomorrow.” 

“Good luck with your secret new assignment.” It was meant as a joke but both of them could feel the tension behind it. 

Fish was apprehensive about this new job, but what is one supposed to do when orders are sent down from Admiral Marcus himself. And he could tell Goms seemed a bit fearful as well, likely for his safety. 

“Get some sleep, cadet” Fish ordered. 

“Don’t try tha’ pulling rank shite on me.” 

“Cock.”

“Bawbag.” 

There was that smile. Everything was better now; any bridge aflame put out with minimal damage. 

“See ya at graduation,” Monty said, hand up to wave farewell. 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” 

They signed off. 

Fish didn’t realize it then, but for the first time ever, he’d lied to his best friend. 

**2259.04.14**

Fish’s ashes had been sent to London, but Clara had been kind enough to talk to Old Man Barry’s son, Ian, about erecting a small memorial by the pond on their family’s property. It had been his favorite spot and Monty had wanted there to be a piece of him remaining there. 

The memorial was small, tasteful, something only Clara could’ve picked out. She’d seen to it that large Tudor Roses were planted around the stone plaque. Red for security, red for engineering. Maybe that was just his interpretation. 

In loving Memory of Edward Fisher, 2223-2252. 

Tasteful. Yet so hollow, that dash so haunting in its shortness. 

_ How much longer a dash could it have been if you’d have gottin’ him outa tha’ school?  _

_ How much longer a dash could it have been if you’d have gone out fer Starfleet together? Been there at the same time to watch out fer each other. He was  _ always  _ there fer ya and ya couldn't once be there fer him? _

“Paying respects to an empty grave is considered bad luck,” a surprising voice lilted behind him. 

Scotty turned around, hands clenching into fists. “Wha’ the hell are ya doin’ here?” 

Vanessa hummed, rolling up her sleeves, the sun finally making an appearance in the few days he’d been back home. “One last stab at offering you a job.” She was using her London accent. Scotty would call it her native one, but he didn’t even know her real name. Everything about her was a lie, a guess. 

He scoffed. “You’re persistent, aren’t ya.” 

Vanessa shrugged, sidling up next to Scotty. “Bit basic,” she commented of the stone. “The roses are a nice touch, though.” 

“You mentioned a job offer,” Scotty prodded. The quicker this conversation happened, the quicker he could deny her offer and get the hell away from her. 

“Yes, it seems your recent accolades have stirred up old interests.” 

“The answer is still no.” 

“Shame,” she replied, eyes still glued to Fish’s memorial. “He’d have liked to see you.” 

“I’m gettin’ rather tired ov ya danglin’ tha’ carrot in mah face.” 

“Then take a bite, Scotty. I’m not much keeping it from you anymore.” She bobbed a shoulder. “Besides, there are many more carrots where that one came from, if you say yes, that is.” 

Scotty narrowed his eyes. “How da I know yer tellin’ the truth?” 

“You don’t,” Vanessa stated evenly before  _ tsk _ ing. “Just going to have to take a look for yourself.” 

Scotty shook his head. “Naw' fallin’ fer tha’ line. Besides, I’ve goh a run on the  _ Enterprise _ comin’ up; not sure yer employer could top tha’.” 

Vanessa laughed. “Yes. With ‘Captain’ Kirk.” Another chuckle. “Honestly, Scotty, if you weren’t in that engine room, I’d put bets on that ship falling from the sky.” She scoffed off his look. “It’s a PR stunt, that ship. No one on that team is qualified, present company excluded.” 

“Flat’ery will geh ya nowhere.”

“What about begging?” She threw up a mock pout. “Please, Scotty. Come work for us.” 

He rolled his eyes and began walking away. 

“What do I have to say to get you to say yes?” 

Scotty kept moving. “Nothin’ ya can say. An’ even if yer tellin’ the truth - which I donnae think ya are seein’ as I highly doubt Fish would work fer the likes of someone who poisons people as a form of manipulation - I’m naw' givin’ up my chance at being chief engineer, PR stunt or naw'.” He stopped short and spun to face her. “I mean, ya haven’t even yet told me wha’ I’d be doin’ an’ this is the - wha? - third time we’re havin’ this conversation. Really, jus’, why do ya need  _ me _ so badly?” 

“For the same reason the Manhattan project needed  Oppenheimer .” 

“The example ya pull is nuclear war?”

“Not just an example.” 

Scotty felt his blood go cold. ‘Wha’?” 

“Nothing furthers science better or faster than war,” Vanessa continued. “How long after the invention of the spear do you think it took man to realize that the tool he’d created to better kill animals worked even more on his neighbor?” She raised a brow. “Why go through the trouble of killing a mammoth when you can kill your fellow man and take  _ his _ food?”

Scotty was frozen, stock still even as she began to take the steps necessary to cover the distance he’d crossed. 

“The Federation likes to hide behind their little research ventures, but be warned, Mr. Scott, there is red on the horizon. Now, you can either scuttle away on your precious  _ Enterprise _ and play scientist for the Admiralty's cover up team, or you can be the engineer that builds the defenses necessary to keep life as we know it safe from its many enemies.” 

“Yer mad.” 

“Isn’t that what they all say of the heroes in the beginning?” She grinned unnervingly. “Tell you what, Scotty. Go, have fun traipsing across the Alpha quadrant with Kirk and his bestest doctor friend, and the Vulcan wannabe, and after a while, when you realize I’m right,” she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a solid black data chip, the numbers 3, 1 engraved on the surface, “give me a call.” 

Scotty didn’t reach for the chip, his gaze hard on hers. 

She rolled her eyes, bouncing the chip in her hand. “Oh please, Scotty.” She nodded to the side, indicating Fish’s memorial. “It comes with the chance to save him.” 

Scotty sighed, breaking his glare and reaching begrudgingly for the disk. 

“Good boy.” Vanessa tucked her hands in her jacket pockets. “I’ll be in touch.”

He watched her leave, hand clenched tightly around the disk in his palm. The idea of tossing it, skipping it across the pond’s surface like all those stones he’d skipped with Fish, a tempting one. 

_ No. _

He tucked it in his pocket. If this was his chance to save Fish, then he was bloody going to try it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looky there. Is that a set up for a sequel?! Will it be 5 years from now before I write it?! We'll find that one out together lol. 
> 
> Thank you so, so very much for taking a chance on this story. It was the first thing in a long time that I wrote so I hope it was okay. Do the whole Kudos and Comments thing should you feel so inclined. Every bit of appreciation is appreciated greatly back; I can assure you. :)


End file.
